


It's a Long Road to Ruin

by Spaghettiwestern



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Arthur Morgan Lives, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Character Death, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Healing, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Prostitution, Recovery, Sick Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 114,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettiwestern/pseuds/Spaghettiwestern
Summary: Honestly, Arthur enjoys the kind of hand to mouth existence this life affords him. His wants and concerns a single track road, no doubts or anxieties clouding his way, it's simple. He's an easy man to please, so long as he has enough pocket change for smokes, to indulge in the odd bottle of whiskey and enough left for food in his belly. He doesn't want for anything else, doesn't know what he'd do if say tomorrow, someone were to drop a crisp hypothetical million bucks in his lap, honestly would just rather not have the headache.He works at a local dive, has done for the past five years or so. It's relaxed, but the routine keeps him in line. The joint proprietors, Dutch and Hosea, he's known for years though, has them to thank for cleaning him up, giving him a honest job, daren't think where he'd have ended up without them, probably prison if he's being optimistic, that or dead in a ditch somewhere.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 34
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so uh, this is my first fic. I'm hoping to make it a big one, but I'm also kinda winging it, so who knows. I just wanted to explore things in a modernish setting. I've reworked a few details, mainly in the time line to make things fit for me. Arthur's a little older when he meets Dutch and Hosea for example.
> 
> Also a heads up, Arthur does get TB in this one, but he is going to survive, so don't worry about that.
> 
> So yeah, I'll try and respond to any feedback etc promptly, let me know if I've missed any tags and just bear with me because I kinda struggle with responding to messages. 
> 
> Thanks:)

Honestly, Arthur enjoys the kind of hand to mouth existence this life affords him. His wants and concerns a single track road, no doubts or anxieties clouding his way, it's simple. He's an easy man to please, so long as he has enough pocket change for smokes, to indulge in the odd bottle of whiskey and enough left for food in his belly. He doesn't want for anything else, doesn't know what he'd do if say tomorrow, someone were to drop a crisp hypothetical million bucks in his lap, honestly would just rather not have the headache. 

He works at a local dive, has done for the past five years or so. It's relaxed, but the routine keeps him in line. The joint proprietors, Dutch and Hosea, he's known for years though, has them to thank for cleaning him up, giving him a honest job, daren't think where he'd have ended up without them, probably prison if he's being optimistic, that or dead in a ditch somewhere. 

After his mother passed, his daddy hit the bottle hard, graduated from committing petty crimes to grand larceny no less, landing him with a tidy life sentence in the process-not nearly long enough in Arthur's opinion. Those years on his own hadn't been pretty, at eighteen, barely even legal, he had nothing to his name, all of it swallowed up by his old man's debts, 'sides from his old truck. So one day, with keys in hand, he just upped and left, decided he wanted nothing more than to just fade away, to keep driving until he felt free of it all. He bounced around for a good few years, haunting gas stops, shitty motels and all night diners, pinching pennies or soliciting strangers, whatever would tide him over, put enough gas in the tank to keep him on his senseless journey toward self destruction. 

It had been winter one year, he'd ended up Chicago of all places, bitterly cold and in desperate need of money. His usual wells of income had run dry, so like a mangy coyote, he'd been forced to creep into the city late at night, scavenging for whatever scraps he could find. That's round when Dutch and Hosea found him, he'd been passed out in his truck, in the parking lot of their club at the time. Apparently some of the patrons had been complaining about his lingering presence the past few nights, so they both had come striding over with the mind to send him on his way, amicably or no.

He had been woken with a jolt, to an incessant rapping on the drivers side window. Panicked, he acted mechanically, scrambling for the keys, jamming them into the ignition, blind instinct all but screaming at him to get the hell out of there. He turned the engine over once, twice…but with no luck, the battery was dead. He snarled in frustration, kicking and punching uselessly at anything in his path. 

"Fucking, goddamn piece of shit!" Panting, he felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes then, which only served to piss him off further. He scrubbed at his face, furiously trying to reign in his unruly emotions, to swallow down the tight knot caught in his throat.

In that time the two men had cautiously stepped back, hands hovering by their sides, clearly armed and ready to shoot. He suddenly felt sick, shame burning a well in his stomach. Arthur quit his rampage, realised what he must look like to these strangers-a rabid animal, half starved and frothing at the mouth. He eyed the two morosely, considered just letting them put him out of his misery, seemed like the greater kindness. 

He couldn't bear to look either of them in the eye, so he settled for hooking his arms over the steering wheel, allowing his lank hair hanging limply in his face. He felt the tears fall freely then, hot as they began rolling down his cheeks, gathering at the tip of his nose. Ordinarily he would never allow himself to display such vulnerability in front of anyone, much less strangers, but he was too exhausted, too ashamed to much care anymore. It was all so fucking pathetic, here he was age 21, no home to call his own, no money, no food, stinking like a dog, and now probably to be spending the remainder of this measly night in a jail cell. 

He sniffled, risking a glance at the men, took them in properly this time. One was tall and fair, the other darker, sporting a thick curled mustache and a red waistcoat, but both dressed finely. The latter stepped forward, made an exaggerated unwinding motion, and Arthur conceded. He tried to compose himself, caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view, he looked like shit. Heart pounding, he carded his fingers through his hair anxiously, and fumbled for the handle down by his thigh, the window stuck, because of course it did. Gritting his teeth, he shook it violently, finally jimmied it about half way before the tall man cleared his throat,

"Easy now, son. We just want to talk, no need to do anything rash alright?" he spoke slowly, purposefully. 

Arthur bristled, hackles up. Didn't appreciate being coddled-being treated like some kind of dumb animal as opposed to an actual human being. But he held his tongue, weighed up his options and reached the conclusion that the sooner he could tuck tail and run the better. So as much as it injured his pride, he played ball, tried to defuse the situation, 

"Hey misters, look, I'm real sorry. I uh, I just lost track of time is all…" his mind scrambled for an excuse, "See, I was waiting on someone, we agreed to meet here, but seems I got stood up, or maybe I got it confused...uh it don't matter, I'll be on my way, no bother, no bother at all."

The dark man scoffed, 

"Bullshit. You hear this Hosea? This kid, who may I remind has been squatting in our parking lot for going on three days now, scaring away our customers, losing us money, thinks he can peddle us this utter nonsense? We have you on camera boy, we hand over that footage to the cops?" The man paused, examining his fingernails for the sake of theatricality, before continuing, "This ratty old truck would barely cover the fees in parking violations alone. So you better start telling the truth you little shit, you an O'driscoll? True, only Colm would be dense enough to send a greenhorn like this to do his dirty work. Hosea, what do you think?" 

Arthur's head was swimming, didn't have a fucking clue what was happening, but the prospect of losing his truck might as well have been a death sentence that time of year in Chigago, that much he knew for certain. As far as he could tell, the shorter man seemed pretty pleased with himself, to have snared Arthur in his little trap and in that moment Arthur saw red. Tired of being trod on all his life by smug bastards just like this one, tired of just accepting that was his due. So despite full well knowing he was being baited, he bit, aimed to draw blood. 

"You know what? Fuck this, I wasn't hurting no-one by being here! You think you're a big man for owning some dinghy club in the back alleys of this stinking city and you then think it affords you the right to step on whoever you goddamn please? Well I'm hear to tell you fuck that and fuck you. I'm sick and tired of men like you walking all over folk y'all deem as lesser. So you know what? You can go ahead and call the police for all I care! If that's what you need to feed that bloated ego of yours, then please, be my guest. Oh an' for the record I never heard of no O'driscolls, I ain't even from here, so you can fuck off with your baseless accusations and all."

By the end of it, Arthur was fuming, eyes fixed firmly ahead, his fists clenched firmly in his lap.  
The tall man, Hosea, put an arm on the other one's shoulder, whispered in his ear, the other one contemplated something and then gave Arthur another shrewd once over. Arthur acted like he didn't see, acted like it didn't make his skin crawl. The nameless man chuckled sardonically, seeming to sense Arthur's taut discomfort. 

"Well alright then. You're clearly no O'driscoll, so I humbly apologise for assuming as such. Look, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, how 'bout you join us both inside our establishment, we'd like to discuss a...business opportunity."

Arthur frowned, stomach sinking, 

"So what are you pimps or somethin'? Because I ain't…" he struggled, "I mean, I ain't above that kinda work, but I also ain't about to make a life out of it, and I'll leave it that, thanks." he stated shortly. 

"Oh heavens no, nothing like that!" he raised his hands placatingly, "Oh my boy, what we're offering is plain old fashioned honest work, nothing more, nothing less."

Hosea then interjected, seeming to sense that Arthur clearly still had his doubts. 

"Look, just hear us out son, you can stay the night, we have a couch in the office and I'm sure we can scare up a hot meal, for your time and for your trouble, so what d'ya say…what's your name?" 

Arthur's eyes darted between the two. He still didn't exactly trust the fancy man. His sharp manner of offering the carrot and the stick side by side rubbed him entirely the wrong way, reminded him too much of his father. Not to mention, words fell off his silver tongue a little too smoothly for comfort, like it was all just one grand performance, one big inside joke at Arthur's expense. Hey and he should know, he'd been sold plenty of false promises in his life, fallen prey to most of them through sheer stupidity or naivete, he couldn't decide, and he'd be damned if he let it happen again. But then he couldn't deny, the promise of a hot meal and a place for the night sang sweetly enough, he'd certainly done more for less. Not to mention something about the tall man, Hosea set his mind at ease, there's a sincerity there. It nurtured a small kernel of hope inside him, that maybe, just maybe their offer was genuine. So, he decided to take the leap. Grabbing his keys, he cautiously exited the vehicle. Uncertain of what to do next he coughed awkwardly, before it dawned on him, Hosea was still patiently waiting for an answer,

"Oh, Arthur, my name's Arthur."

***

It was a couple of hours later. The two men, Arthur learnt the other one was called Dutch, had closed down the club for the night and then they had all walked the couple of blocks down to a local all night diner. Crammed into a booth, Arthur sat stiffly on one side, with Dutch and Hosea opposite. He pensively sipped his coffee, nursing the mug, to warm his numb fingers, and he waited for one of them to speak, naturally it was Dutch. 

"Now, Arthur. Before we get down to brass tacks, you should understand, me and my partner here, we're not in the habit of just picking up wanton waifs and strays off the street, well at least not ones we can't trust. No offence meant my boy."

"None taken." Arthur replied tightly. 

"Right, so in the interest of plain transparency, how about you tell us a little about yourself?" 

Arthur tensed, comtemplated just saying fuck the free meal and bolting. He felt like a fly in a trap, and moreover he felt like a fool, for voluntarily walking into it no less, for sticking around and letting these two spiders disguised as men continue to weave their intricate web--

"Hey, hey, easy now. We're not out to interrogate you Arthur," Hosea assured, "we just want to get to know you a little better, that's all. Let's just start small alright, how about your age?" 

"I'm 21." 

"Good, ok, and how 'bout where you're from, got any family, any relatives?" Hosea gently prodded. Dutch sat back, watching silently, having deemed it best to let Hosea take the reins on this one. But before Arthur could answer, his food arrived, a loaded plate of eggs, bacon and warm buttered toast. He peered over at the two men, neither having ordered anything. Hosea gave an affirming little nod, but still, it felt awkward, to be the only one eating, and to be watched so intently as he did so. He sighed, 

"I'm not from anywhere really. Grew up down south mostly, after my mama died, me and daddy didn't stick around in any one place too long, kept moving so the law wouldn't catch up to us. But it did, in the end it did. He's in prison now, serving life. I was eighteen when he got arrested, knew right there and then I wasn't gonna let myself rot away in that good for nothing town, so I just upped and left. Been on the road ever since."

He finished the rest of his meal in silence. Despite the gnawing pit in his stomach, he was conscious of minding his manners in front of these men. One of the few things he still had control of, it was a small but significant act of dignity in his eyes. 

Hosea hummed thoughtfully, 

"Well it sounds like you've had a rough go of it son and for that I apologise."

"Ain't no need to apologise, won't change nothing." Arthur replied shortly. Exhausted, he pushed his plate aside, no longer had it in him to observe niceties. All he wanted was to just close the book on this godawful day, "So now you've heard my little sob story, you gonna enlighten me on this 'business' opportunity or not?" 

Dutch stifled a chortle,

"Mm yes, succinctly put. Well, you've probably already gathered our line of business, but in case you hadn't, we own the club, goes by the name of Valentine's in case you were curious. Now I won't mince words, we're in much need of some extra muscle, and after seeing how you handled yourself in the parking lot--Well me and Hosea believe you'd be a natural."

Arthur shifted in his seat, interest piqued. He leant forward, elbows resting on the table. 

"So…you're saying I'd be working security, that it?" 

"Exactly." Hosea smiled, "Now, some assurances, which I'm sure you're anxious to hear. You'll be partnered with a senior member of staff, just to begin with, we have a couple of guys on rotation at the moment, they'll look out for you. Shifts start at 9pm and finish at 5am, you get one half hour break, one 10 minute break and you'll be working 4 nights a week, how's that sound so far?" 

Arthur startled, "I uhh…it sounds real fine, Mr…"

"Matthews, but please, Hosea is fine."

"Right. but…uh," suddenly sheepish, Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, "Well you can probably guess my living situation ain't exactly…"

Hosea waved his hand, brushing away his concerns like a summer breeze. 

"Ah of course, no fear, we actually own the entire property. On the second floor there's a little studio apartment. Nothing fancy, but I'm sure it'll suit you well enough, and naturally if you require any accommodations or maintenance be sure to let us know and we'll do our best to get it seen to."

At this point Dutch piped in, 

"So, now all that's out the way…am I safe in assuming we have a deal?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was so young then, so uncertain of himself beneath the bluster. He was desperate to prove himself, to ingratiate himself to Dutch and Hosea, the only adults that had ever shown him genuine kindness. So woefully indebted to them that he would do anything, become anything they needed of him. Sometimes it wouldn't always be strictly legal, but he didn't care and back then it had been so easy. Every cop either crooked, or so overwhelmed by the perpetual gang feuds that whatever went on at Valentine's was just rain drops in an ocean of sin and depravity. That was until they started running higher risk jobs, getting too big for their boots and then all that shit went down with the O'driscolls…the club got shot up, and just like that, Valentine's was on everyone's radar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so uhh here's some more flashbacks, I tried my best to fit things in, you know like convincingly without going too bogged down in the details. But anyway, from here on out, we should be onto the story:)
> 
> Also thank you for the comments on the last chapter! They made my day <3
> 
> And last of all, stay safe everyone Xx

Drifting back into the present, Arthur looks down at his watch, shit it's late. He fans his shirt, the summer heat making it cling uncomfortably to his chest. He decides to have one last smoke before turning in. He strikes a light, cups the flame in his hand, shakes the match out and takes a long, thoughtful drag. Looking back on that time in his life now, it conjures a peculiar jumble of emotions, feelings he prefers to keep tucked away, only to be dusted off during quiet moments like this. 

He was so young then, so uncertain of himself beneath the bluster. He was desperate to prove himself, to ingratiate himself to Dutch and Hosea, the only adults that had ever shown him genuine kindness. So woefully indebted to them that he would do anything, become anything they needed of him. Sometimes it wouldn't always be strictly legal, but he didn't care and back then it had been so easy. Every cop either crooked, or so overwhelmed by the perpetual gang feuds that whatever went on at Valentine's was just rain drops in an ocean of sin and depravity. That was until they started running higher risk jobs, getting too big for their boots and then all that shit went down with the O'driscolls…the club got shot up, and just like that, Valentine's was on everyone's radar. 

They were left with no choice but to burn all bridges, leave Chicago and rebuild elsewhere, somewhere quiet and unassuming. That's how they ended up in The South, down Louisiana way, in some backwater town, not much unlike the one Arthur grew up in. 

It felt vaguely unsettling to almost come full circle, nearly two decades later, so much had changed since he was a boy and yet it was somehow still the same. The South certainly hadn't changed in his absence, the swampy heat, the stillness of the air--stagnant, much like her people and her towns. It was like the land itself was sick, those with any sense had long since abandoned it, and those who remained, had simply become trapped in the past, unable to see a way out--more ghosts than people. Much like the decaying store fronts left to ruin, there was a rot deep inside everyone and everything here. At least with age he had come to accept that, had learned to simply let go, to stop struggling against his own nature. 

Arthur groaned, he needed to get out of his own head. Much like the heat, the memories have become stifling. He flicks his spent cigarette over the porch and eases himself up, joints creaking. He still has a few hours before work, he heads back into his trailer, figures he'll shower and get himself ready for the day ahead. 

***

"Well you look like shit."

"Mornin' to you too." 

Arthur scowls from beneath the brim of his hat, but he can't help but crack a wry smile despite himself. It's always been like this between him and John, hurling insults at one another, mostly in good humour these days. For a long time it hadn't been like that though. 

John had been picked up roughly 6 months after Arthur, another street rat that Dutch and Hosea saw some supposed, untapped potential in. Arthur had felt equal parts excitement and dismay when the announcement had been made. He enjoyed the notion of rubbing shoulders with someone closer to his own age, not something he had got the chance to experience much, quitting school early as he had and then hitting the road soon after. But anxiety tugged in the back of his mind also. What if this newbie surpassed him, what need would they have of him then? Dutch and Hosea had already given him so much and what exactly had he offered them in return? Nothing that this new guy couldn't, that venomous little voice in his head had whispered. 

But turns out he needn't have worried so much. Whilst John was doted on fiercely, which stung in its own way, he was also dumber than a box or rocks. So Arthur's role, the place in this rag-tag family he had fought for so fiercely, as the dependable enforcer and provider remained unbesmirched.

It was soon after that John started courting Abbie. She worked the bar at Valentine's, had been there long before either of them started, a bright young woman with a gentle heart and a playful spark in her eye. 

Maybe it was jealousy, or just plain old loneliness eating at him, having spent so many years only in the company of strangers. Or maybe it was desperation, the craving to make a real connection, to know that was something he was still capable of and not a part of him that was broken beyond repair, like he so often feared. Either way, much to Arthur's chagrin, it was clear as day she was besotted with John. Bitterly, he had kicked himself for even allowing that small seed of hope to sprout roots, to tie knots round his heart. Part of him had known deep down it was foolish to have believed something would ever transpire, that a fine woman such as Abigail would stoop so low. But it still smarted to see the two of them together, smiling and laughing like it was all so natural. 

And in another, deep seated part of himself, he suspected that he felt some attraction for John. Not in any way he would ever act upon, and not really even for John himself, it was more akin to the abstract yearning he felt at times, the desire to be with another man, for real. His interactions with strangers he didn't count, just cheap thrills--a pale imitation when compared to the real thing. Or so he figures, he can't actually say for sure, his love life limited to two fateful encounters, both of which ended poorly, to say the very least. 

In any case, he'd stopped that work once he'd started at Valentine's, not that the thought didn't still cross his mind. Sometimes he was just so desperate to feel wanted, to be desired like that. The feeling coiled in his stomach, simultaneously tantalising and nauseating--precious and to be protected, yet so tangled up in shame and fear in equal measure. Of course Dutch and Hosea knew about his past when he'd let it slip that first night. They never scorned him for it, never treated him any different-which he appreciated, but still it felt like it would be a betrayal of their kindness to go back to that kind of work, so he hadn't. 

Thankfully, those boyish infatuations for both Abbie and John didn't last long, like spring melt they were fleeting, just a momentary shift in the routine seasons of his life, never meant to be anything more and never to be the same again. No, instead, he had carelessly allowed his lovesick heart to ferry him elsewhere, to set his sights on some other unfortunate soul who would come to suffer the misfortune of knowing and subsequently being loved by him. 

Eliza had worked at the fast food joint across the parking lot. A dainty little thing, with dark, inquisitive eyes. They hit it off pretty quick, Arthur offered to take her over to Valentine's one night, just to have a few drinks and a good time. They ended up back at hers, both giddy and longing for one another. 

A couple of months later, she started showing. Couldn't exactly hide the growing bump, peeking from beneath her work apron for long. Arthur, terrified as he was, did what he could. He offered for Eliza to move in with him, it seemed the natural thing to do and if nothing else, he was determined to at least make sure his child would have a father who cared, who was there. But in the end, she had politely declined, once it became clear what kind work ran on the side at Valentine's, nothing she wanted to be associated with and sensibly so. 

As time marched on, and her due date crept closer and closer they finally managed a tentative compromise, Arthur would pay what he could towards the bills and they agreed to divy up childcare between themselves. Arthur would take his usual shifts, finish at 6am, take care of little Issac during the day whilst Eliza was at work. She'd return home, he'd get a chaste few hours sleep and then she'd take over whilst he was at work and so on. It worked, they were both exhausted, but they managed to stay afloat together like that for a few years, up until around Issac's fourth birthday. 

It was during those blue, lonely hours before dawn that Arthur had been on his way over to Eliza's apartment block, having just finished his shift for the night. In the fog he had seen smudges of light, blinking like little beacons in the dark, he hadn't thought much of it at the time. But as he drew closer it had all come into lurching into focus, bright and loud and terrible. The uniforms crowding the entrance to the building, the ambulance, the two stretchers being wheeled out. Nameless shapes, one heartbreakingly small, were carted away and Arthur, without even knowing collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed by it all. 

Of course everyone at Valentine's knew. The police had been involved naturally, they'd come sniffing around at the club often enough in the following weeks, poking and prodding for any holes in Arthur's alibi. Hosea and Dutch handled most of it thankfully, Arthur in no state to defend himself. 

Slowly, he had clawed his way out of that bottomless pit, only to find himself dwarfed by the insurmountable task of resuming life where it had left off. So, he threw himself into work, giving himself entirely to the gang, to Dutch. Seeking purpose in providing for the others, it seemed only fitting. 

A few years later bouncing baby Jack had been born, John had bolted like the fool and the coward he was. Arthur, haunted by the ghosts of Eliza and Issac still, had vowed, if only to himself, to do right by Abigail and Jack, not at some feeble attempt for redemption-no, he was long past that. It was because no matter how much he despised John for leaving, he could never allow for something to happen to those two, to allow anyone else, even John fucking Marston, to go through the pain of loosing them both. 

Strangely perhaps, Arthur and Abigail had become fast friends that year, both brought together by the mutual pain and heartache left in John's wake. Even after he had returned, had tried to make amends, Arthur never could make himself forgive, not completely, even now. The resentment still tied up so tightly with his own failures and regrets. Whilst, time, as with most things, has loosened the knots considerably, dulled the barbs so to speak, the wounds are still there and the thorns, still sharp enough to draw blood. 

***  
Arthur grimaces. It's an unfortunate habit of his to dwell on the past, to nurse it back to life, only to pick it all apart, over and over. Hosea often admonishes him for it, urges him to let sleeping dogs lie, but it's so deeply ingrained, to try and root it out would be like losing a part of himself. 

He adjusts his hat, striding towards the back of house to dump his jacket, 

"Hey, Uncle Arthur!"

Arthur permits himself a genuine smile, he ruffles the young boy's hair. 

"Hey Jack, watch'a got there?" 

The boy, now beaming, lifts up the paper he'd been drawing on with a little flourish. Arthur delicately lifts it up to his eyes, he sees a collection of crudely drawn figures, all meticulously labelled in Jack's wobbly handwriting. Arthur lets out a soft huff, it's the old gang from Valentine's. Most of them he hasn't seen in years and he could count on one hand the folks he still chose to keep in contact to. After shit hit the fan in Chicago most had scattered to the wind, and wisely so. There was Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, all settled down and with families now. Sean and Lenny had bit the bullet and applied for college together, Lord knows what havoc they wreaked there. Micah, that slimy weasel had scurried across the border, dragging both Bill and Javier along with him, it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Charles and Uncle were the only ones left, both with nowhere else to go they'd drifted down south with the rest of them. Uncle, the in-resident parasite spent most of his time slumped over the bar, and Charles, well he kept to himself, worked up on a ranch a town or two over, he'd only come down if they needed some extra muscle, as a courtesy. Arthur hummed, "Well this is a real fine drawing Jack." handing it back, "Looks like you got a real little artist on your hands Abigail. How you holding up by the way?" 

"Just fine Arthur," she smiled placatingly. "Better than you, by the looks of it, you wanna talk about it?" 

"Nah, ain't nothing. Just couldn't sleep is all." Quick to change the subject, he takes off his hat, combs back his hair and nestles it back atop his head, "Anyway, better get to it, see you in a bit Abbie." 

The morning passed by in a lazy haze. Arthur had spent the first few hours putting away the delivery, lugging the kegs down into the basement and so forth. Now, enjoying the lull, he steps out to the back alley to indulge in a few cigarettes before meeting with Dutch and Hosea to discuss the details of a new job. 

The days of grand and lofty schemes had long since passed, which Arthur was quietly grateful for. None of them were getting any younger and Arthur could admit, if only to himself, that at this stage in his life, now the age his father was when he got arrested, he wants nothing more than to just walk on the straight and narrow from here on, well as much as he can anyhow. 

Thankfully, their little side enterprise was mostly a matter of transporting various goods down across the border, still risky, but the money was good--one run alone could tide them over for a few months easy and naturally Arthur had volunteered early on to play the role of delivery boy. Reasoning that he knew the roads better than anyone, not to mention he plain refused to let anyone else take the risk. Checking his watch he figures it's about time, he crushes the last cig under his boot and is on his way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To drink in the expanse of the open sky above, to feel the solid earth rolling beneath him, it's the closest thing to peace he knows. It's time like this he misses living on the road. There's a clarity in the mindless freedom of it all, to just become a blip on the map, no worldly concerns to hold him down, he can just become nothing.

Having arrived a few minutes early at their designated meeting spot, the local diner, Arthur locates a booth tucked away nicely in the corner. After awkwardly wedging himself in, he opts for staring out the window absently, sipping a coffee as he waits. He startles to a firm hand clasping his shoulder, he splutters, dribbling coffee down his chin. 

"Rise and shine my boy!" 

Of course. Only Dutch would be so amused by his own antics. Arthur grumbles, waving him off as he dabs at his chin with a napkin. 

"Alright, alright," he grouses "you've had your fun, we gonna talk business or have you just come here to make me look a fool?" To which Dutch chortles heartily. 

"Oh Arthur, you don't need our help to do that, no, we're just here to enjoy the show!"

Well he sure as shit walked into that one, he lets it slide with an exasperated huff. After all these years they still delight in tormenting him, not that Arthur would have it any other way, even if it's at his own expense. Part of him warms to see them both laugh, Hosea especially, so light and airy, like a changed man. So unlike those last few years at Valentine's. 

All of them buckling under the weight-the fear. It was palpable, the stench hung in the air, clung to them all like some fetid disease. And there was Dutch leaping from one ludicrous plan to the next, in a desperate attempt to keep them afloat, when instead all he did was fan the flames. 

Thinking back, It disturbs Arthur still how the very code they lived by, their unshakeable foundation, crumbled beneath them with such frightening velocity in the end. Their ideological pillars so warped beyond recognition, rotting away unseen for days, months, years, that all it took was one little push to bring it all crashing down. 

It started with Bronté, a deadly dance with one of the city's most prosperous mob bosses. When they had first crossed paths, Arthur could not say he was exactly impressed. Bronté was a pitiable little man in Arthur's opinion, who thought far too much of himself and far too little of anyone else to command the kind of respect he did. More akin to a weasel than anything, albeit one dressed in a fancy little hat and plush smoking jacket at the time of their first introduction. 

He looked upon them openly in disdain, and spoke of them much the same Arthur suspected. Whenever he turned to make some flyaway comment to his men in Italian, which he so often made a point of doing, they all would erupt into raucous laughter, quite pleased with themselves for outwitting the foolish Americans. Arthur could feel his nerves crackle every time. But he held his temper, refusing to provide the man with any further entertainment than his presence alone, which in of itself was grudging at that. 

They all knew Bronte was a snake, but Dutch in his infallible wisdom believed they could still play him, bringing him down a peg or two in the process. All under the guise that they were doing the city a favour, ridding it of such a reprehensible presence, Dutch of the mind that they should be granted a medal of honor for committing such a noble act. So that was the game they played. Balancing on the tip of a blade, alternating between shamelessly ingratiating themselves, to plotting bronte's demise in the same. 

Naturally, they were the ones that got played. Bronte letting slip of a robbery job, one evidently too good to be true, as they were immediately surrounded by the law, barely managing to scrape out of the ensuing gunfight alive. It became clear pretty quick that half the cops were in Bronte's pocket then, and with enough ammunition to persecute, they came bearing down on the Van der Lindes like nothing before. In the ensuing chaos, the O' Driscolls, vultures that they are, fancied themselves a slice. Figuring the Van der Lindes were too weak to defend themselves on all those fronts they raided the club one night, shot it to hell, killed poor Keiran in the crossfire. 

It had been undoubtedly hard in the aftermath.  
Arthur felt torn in two. His former idol in Dutch, toppled from the pedestal Arthur had placed him upon so reverently, to leave nothing, just vacant space, a hollow in his heart that wanted filling. But all Arthur was left were more questions, more doubts than he knew how to answer. 

All Arthur knew was that he didn't trust Dutch as far as he could throw him. But as much as disgusted him, he couldn't deny, he was still dependent on the man. After so many years spent under Dutch's wing Arthur could admit he was no longer who he once was, young and detached enough that he could just cut ties so simply, as he had with his father. No, the cords of obligation, of loyalty dug deep. Not even loyalty to Dutch but to the others that were left, Hosea, John and his family…Charles. They all deserved better than the lies and the broken promises they had been dealt in the end. So Arthur had resolved to stay, for them. 

It had only been in the last couple of years that he had tentatively begun to trust in Dutch's leadership once more. Maybe it was just getting out the city, but things seemed simpler here, calmer at the very least. Chicago had been a hornet's nest. Sure the opportunities were plentiful, but shake the wrong tree and suddenly you'd have a whole swarm of angry bastards chasing after you. Yet despite all that, or perhaps more accurately, as a result of all that, Dutch flourished. He was like a dog with a bone, snapping up whatever he could get his teeth into, blinded by the chase, unable to see rhyme or reason even if it was dangled right in front of his nose. 

Having taken a step back from that kinda life, Arthur had noticed a change in the man. He at least seemed humbled by their experience, self aware enough that he knew there could be no repeating of the past.That the golden future he sold them, sold himself no longer existed, if it ever did. 

It was enough now to simply survive, to run jobs as needed, to support the bar and to support themselves, to, Arthur hopes, be a family. That sliver of hope is what keeps Arthur going most of all, something he would cling on to with his dying breath. He shakes himself out of his brooding. He hadn't missed much. Dutch and Hosea place their orders and finally, they get down to details. 

***  
Sure enough, it's a simple enough job, smuggling down some counterfeit goods, he could do it in his sleep. With the pick up and drop off locations established Arthur excuses himself, 

"Well it's been a pleasure gentlemen, see you in a week." 

He exits the diner, taps out a cig, checks his watch, it's 5pm. He leans his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Having not exactly slept he can the beginnings of a headache drumming behind his eyes, between his temples. It's decided then, if he heads home now he can get some sleep, wake up fresh for a bright and early start in the morning. It'll be about a day's drive to the pick up, and tardiness is particularly frowned upon in this line of work, so he makes a point of always being punctual. 

No longer wanting to hang around, he tosses the half finished ciggy to the curb, goes to unlock his truck and settles into the cab. The engine turns over, sputtering a little, he absently pats the dash. 

"C'mon now, get me home girl." He reverses out the lot in a wide circle and drives off. 

***

Back home he shrugs off his shoes, dumps his keys on a countertop. For a moment he just stands and looks around, taking stock of what he'll be needing for tomorrow. He grabs the old duffle from under his bed, a handful of spare clothes. Next a burner phone, he rips a fresh one out the packet and chucks that in the bag too. Cash…he checks his wallet, 50 bucks, that'll have to do, no motels this time, he'll sleep in his truck. Finally he reaches for the lockbox he keeps hidden in the back of his wardrobe, pries it open and lifts out his trusty cattleman revolver, feels the weight of it in his hands, reassuring and burdensome both. He cleans it, makes the necessary checks. Satisfied he lays it down in his nightstand, lands heavily on to his bed and closes his eyes. 

***

He wakes with a jolt, his alarm wailing obnoxiously loud in his ear. Groaning he squints at the time on the digital display, 4am. Shit, he hadn't planned on sleeping this long. He hauls himself out of bed, grabs a crumbled pair of jeans and shirt, and throws them on. Grabs the duffle and grabs his gun, jamming it haphazardly in the seat of his pants for now. Tripping up as he hops towards the kitchen he snatches a belt hanging off the back of a chair. As he sets the kettle to boil he finds his shoes, shrugs on his tan work jacket, stumbles back to the kitchen to pour out a cup of coffee in his travel mug and is out the door, keys in hand, without a moment to spare. 

***

Ten hours on the road and he's almost there. His ass is killing him, confined inside the cab for so long he savours the thought of stepping out and being able to stretch his legs soon. Finally after what seems like an age, he spots his turn off, tires rumbling over the dirt track road he eases off the gas, spots a glint on the horizon, what looks like a car, its form shifting and waving in the desert heat. As he pulls up he smiles, would recognise that prim and proper silhouette anywhere. 

"Trelawny! How you keeping?" 

"Quite well Arthur, quite well. You seem awfully chipper," he grumbles. Arthur will never understand why Trelawny insists on wearing those ridiculous outfits of his, even for simple pick-ups like this, but he also can't lie, he finds it pretty amusing all the same. Arthur claps the man amicably on the back, 

"C'mon then, show me what I'm working with, before you end up roasting like a prize turkey." 

***

Package stowed safely away in the compartment hidden under his truck bed, installed courtesy of Dutch, he turns to shake Trelawny's hand. 

"Well until next time," and with a little finger salute he hops back into the cab and rumbles off, leaving a cloud of dust in his tracks. 

Back on the road again, he lets out a huff of relief. Now the pick up is done he can relax a little, he has a few days to play with now, to make the trip across the border. So first things first, he winds down the window, never did get it fixed, it still sticks like a motherfucker. He fumbles for his cigarettes, plants one steadfastly between his teeth and lights her up. Leaning back, he takes a hearty drag, feels the pleasant burn in his lungs, exhales out the window, like he just took in a breath of fresh air. 

He's grateful to be rid of the swamps for a few days. It's all encompassing, the perpetual sense of claustrophobia they evoke in him, it presses down on him like a physical force. The weight of the heat, the weight of the trees crowding over him, blotting out the sky, their limbs boughing under woven blankets of lichen and Spanish moss-hanging in tendrils like the innards of some grotesque creature. 

To drink in the expanse of the open sky above, to feel the solid earth rolling beneath him, it's the closest thing to peace he knows. It's time like this he misses living on the road. There's a clarity in the mindless freedom of it all, to just become a blip on the map, no worldly concerns to hold him down, he can just become nothing. 

He drives for a few more hours, the setting sun paints the land in silhouettes, met in the middle by a burning halo of fire, wrapped round the horizon as far as the eye can see. Then, as the light fades and the stars awake from their slumber, Arthur concedes it's probably time to call it a night. 

He pulls over onto the dirt, decides he wants to sleep under the open sky tonight. Grabbing his old sleeping bag from under the seat and a couple of threadbare blankets, he heads round the back and opens out the truck bed, spreads it all out as comfortably as he can. Suspension creaking as he hawls himself in, he lays down on his back and sinks into unconsciousness. 

He awakes with a groan. His body aches, muscles cramping as he stretches out-he internally bemoans the fact he's getting too old to do this shit. His head thumps from dehydration, he tries to swallow down the foul taste in his mouth, like week old cigarettes. Bowlegged, he ambles towards the cab, grabs his toothbrush out the cup holder and gives his teeth a rigorous scrubbing. Then, uncapping a bottle of water from his bag he takes a swig, rinsing his mouth, spitting out into the dirt. He ends up splashing the rest on his face. Feeling questionably refreshed, he checks his watch, 6am, not bad. 

***

The rest of the job passes without incident. He crosses the border as usual no trouble, bantering with the border control agents as he goes. Like a worn in coat, he dons the guise of red blooded American easily enough, and it works like a charm every time. The drop off goes smoothly too, brisk and professional. All in all, not a bad run and the stack of cash he received in return is nothing to be sniffed at either. 

Once he's back on American soil, he pulls out the burner phone, this particular routine is like muscle memory now, he doesn't even need to step off the gas. He taps out Dutch's number, lets it ring for a few seconds, hangs up and tosses the cheap plastic brick out of the speeding window. Satisfied that the door is now closed on the job, he flicks on the radio, lights up and cruises down the highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it:) 
> 
> Not much to say about this one. I figured in this world, the events at Valentine's would basically equate to the events that broke up the gang in chapter 6, except here it comes to a head a lot quicker, so alot of the really messed up stuff never gets a chance to happen as it did in the original story. Otherwise I don't think Arthur would ever forgive Dutch, and even in this scenario alot of it boils down to Arthur staying to look out for the others and also partly because he feels he has nowhere else to go.
> 
> But I digress, I hope everyone is doing well, thank you for the kudos xx
> 
> Oh and just a heads up chapters may be a bit slower from here on out, these past ones were basically already completed, it was just a matter of tweaking them. But I promise I'm still working on it, so thanks and see ya in the next one x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he nears the state line he can feel his nerves go taut, he dreads this every time. He's already  
> mourning the loss of the sky, the vast, open plains. Leaving the land he loves in the rear view, in favour of driving into the gaping wet maw of the bayous. 
> 
> Fuck it, he turns off before he can change his mind. Idling in front of his destination, he hesitates. Dutch and Hosea are gonna be pissed, he reckons. But he forces it down, swallowing his indecision, he turns off the ignition and makes for the seedy bar across the street.

As he nears the state line Arthur can feel his nerves go taut, he dreads this every time. He's already  
mourning the loss of the sky, the vast, open plains. Leaving the land he loves in the rear view, in favour of driving into the gaping wet maw of the bayous. 

Fuck it, he turns off before he can change his mind. Idling in front of his destination, he hesitates. Dutch and Hosea are gonna be pissed, he reckons. But he forces it down, swallowing his indecision, he turns off the ignition and makes for the seedy bar across the street. He saunters up to the front, casually setting down his hat as he pulls up a stool. The barkeep looks him over dubiously,

"You got money?" 

Irked, Arthur fishes out a few crumpled bills, throwing daggers as he slaps them onto the tacky countertop. 

"That good enough for ya?" 

The man takes the money without comment, pours his drink and slides it over silently. Shaking his head in disbelief Arthur grabs the glass and turns his back, leaning his elbows on the bar in a deliberate show of arrogance. He takes in his surroundings in the dim light. It's a shit hole alright, only a couple of other patrons scattered about like detritus, sad and lonely men like himself by the looks of it. Arthur grimaces, downs his shot and raises his hand for a refill. He keeps up the routine for a few more rounds, until he feels warm and mellow. 

There's another man sat at the bar, hunched in on himself as he is, Arthur hadn't noticed him at first. Pale and sickly looking, either he's nursing one particularly bad hangover or he's drinking to drown out whatever clearly ails him Arthur muses. He feels a small pang of pity, but it dissipates soon enough, ain't his problem.

Deciding he's partaken enough, figures he's as ready as he'll ever be, Arthur grabs his hat and makes for the exit. As he passes, he catches shoulders sharply with someone walking in. He should let it lie, but he doesn't. Already riled from the disdain the barkeep dealt him, Arthur spins on his heel, gives the man a firm shove, 

"Hey watch where you're going asshole." The stranger gives him a once over, clearly unimpressed by what he sees, and sneers, 

"Oh yeah, what you gonna do about it, pretty boy?" 

Maybe it's the booze, or maybe it's the swelling dread brewing inside him from being so close to home, or maybe it's the petty insult that hits a little too close to home, but in that moment Arthur sees red, suddenly ravenous for a fist fight. He lands a solid punch to the man's jaw, relishes in the satisfying crack it makes. The stranger staggers back, momentarily dazed, but he recovers soon enough, barrelling towards Arthur like an enraged ox. 

They grapple for a few minutes, each landing a few hits, but the tide turns and soon the stranger is pressed down on top of him, digging blow after blow into his gut. Adrenaline fries his nerves, in a frenzied attempt to break free Arthur knees the man in the groin, and sure enough it cracks open a window wide enough to let him flip over his opponent, and now, with roles reversed he punches mercilessly at the man's face, watches it collapse like a crushed tomato under his fists. He doesn't think, he just watches in a detached fascination as his fists continue their bloody conquest, the man moans dolefully, squirming weakly in protest.

Suddenly Arthur is wrenched out of his trance, he feels a weight around his torso, something is yanking him up from behind. Blindsided, he turns sharply, slams the obstacle hard with his elbow. It's the man from the bar, the sickly feller. The man stumbles, clutching his face as blood bubbles from his nose or his mouth, Arthur can't tell, and before he can react, the man splutters, coughing wretchedly into his face. 

Utterly revulsed, Arthur snaps out of his trance, wiping his face roughly with his arm. He ignores the do gooder, now hunched over himself, convulsing with wet, wracking coughs. Instead, he looks down at the man pinned beneath his legs, his face barely distinguishable as such, reduced to a grisly pulp, he's stopped struggling Arthur notices absently. Feeling sick to his stomach, Arthur blindly stumbles out the bar, leans heavily against the wall as he heaves up whatever was left in his stomach, mainly booze at this point. He gathers his bearings, realising that he desperately needs to get out of here before the cops show, so he bolts for his truck, starts her up, and veers sharply on to the road. He doesn't look back, just drives into the night. 

***

Arthur gets back to his trailer a few anxious hours later, checks the clock on his dash, it's 3am, he has about 4 hours before he has to leave for work, Christ…what a mess. 

He gingerly exits his truck, hissing as he jars the tender flesh round his ribs. Without much thought he charts a clumsy course towards the bathroom. Squirming out of his shirt, he tries to assess the damage as best he can in the compact mirror above the sink. 

It ain't pretty. His skin is raw, mottled with angry pink blemishes, a crude patchwork that spans across his entire abdomen. In the dim light he can see some spots are already darkening, like dashes of ink dancing on the surface of water, they bloom from under his skin. He supposes he should be grateful the worst can be concealed under his shirt at least. The real problem is his face. He pulls his jaw to the side, looks at his reflection for as long as he can bear. The left side is already starting to discolour, his eye puffy and bloodshot and his lip swollen, must have got cut on his teeth at some point.

He slams his fist hard into the wall, the mirror rattles pathetically in reply. There'll be no hiding this from Dutch and Hosea. It's all so fucking stupid. The job had gone perfectly, not a wrinkle. But not that it'll matter, all they'll see is what's written on his face. The actions of some prepubescent child throwing a temper tantrum, nothing more, nothing less. That fight was a stroke of pure idiocy, Arthur knows it now and he'd know it then, but that still hadn't stopped him from bashing that unlucky bastard's face in, probably giving the fucker brain damage, the state he left him in Arthur speculates morbidly. Just another poor fool's life he's inadvertently ruined he supposes, might as well add that to the tally. 

He sighs. He's vaguely hungry, but his stomach is still roiling, so he settles for a glass of water and a couple of aspirin to round off the night. 

***

He rolls up to work, about thirty minutes late. It's his own fault. He'd stopped at the gas station for smokes and now, here he is, sat in his truck across the street, having spent the last ten minutes dicking about, burning through practically half the pack in a feeble attempt to drum up enough courage to face the music.

He finally relents. He exits the truck, slinging the duffle, conspicuously full of cash from the job over his shoulder, as he strides towards the bar. He enters, chin tucked down, in an effort to, he hopes, shroud his face from whoever is tending front of house today. Of course, he should have known things were never allowed to be that easy. 

"Hey Arthur. "

It's a simple greeting but it's enough to stop Arthur in his tracks. It's Charles, he hadn't been expecting Charles. Totally disarmed, his mind scrambles wildly to string together something that's at least half-way coherent. He manages it, just about,

"Oh uh hey Charles, I…well, I mean, how you keeping, all good?" 

"I'm fine," he replies mildly, pausing as he scrutinies Arthur, "How about you, run into some trouble?" he gestures loosely to his face. 

"It wasn't nothing I couldn't handle." He leaves it at that. Charles hms, unconvinced, but lets the silence sit. Arthur averts his eyes, squirming under the man's steady gaze, the sheer intensity, it's bruising. Now, unsure what to do, he brings up the obvious, "So uhh…what brings you down this way?" he states dumbly. 

"Dutch and Hosea asked if I could cover for John, apparently he's in the dog house again." 

"Ahh…right." scratching the back of his neck, Arthur risks a quick glance over at the other man. He seems quietly amused by Arthur's mounting discomfort. 

"I also wanted to ask if you'd like to join me on the ranch for a few days. We're short right now and there's a couple of new horses I could use a hand with breaking in. I already cleared it with Dutch and Hosea, they can spare you."

"Oh, well…sure." He replies woodenly at first, genuine surprise rendering him mute, his tongue suddenly three sizes too large for his mouth. Naturally, confusion etches into Charles' brow. 

"Ok...Are you sure? I didn't mean to force your hand Arthur, if you'd rather not--" 

"Shit, no I didn't…I mean o' course, you just uh, took me by surprise is all, it would be a pleasure Charles." like a landslide, the words come tumbling out his mouth, slowly, then all at once. It's a train wreck undoubtedly and amidst the rubble Arthur wishes more than anything that he could just put a gun to his head, if only to put an end to his own suffering. 

Ears burning, he clears his throat, desperately searching for an out. Then, in a stroke of lightning he remembers, "Ah! An' speaking of Dutch and Hosea, " He waggles the loaded duffle theatrically before continuing, "I uh, I got a date to keep." and before he has time to make a bigger fool of himself, Arthur briskly makes his exit. 

As he slides into their makeshift office, Arthur finally releases his breath. He can still feel Charles' eyes on him, as though even from the other room his gaze is burning holes through the wood of the door. Arthur closes his eyes, as though that might offer some kind of protection. He stays like that, with his back to the room for some time, as he struggles to regather the threads of his sanity. 

But it's short lived, punctuated by Dutch obtrusively clearing his throat, demanding Arthur's attention. Jesus…out of the frying pan and into the fire he supposes. 

"Well if it isn't the man of the hour, Arthur! How are you son, everything went well, I take it?"Arthur internally cringes, 

"Sure Dutch. The job went fine." Hosea, sharp as a tack, immediately picks up on what Arthur isn't saying,

"So you didn't run into any trouble at all then?"

"I uh…well, not exactly." he turns slowly to face them both and waits for the fireworks, and sure enough Dutch is first to blow his fuse, 

"Christ Arthur! What the hell happened to you? If those fuckers beat you up so help me that's the last time we'll ever be relying on Trelawny for intel--"

"What, no no! It…it ain't like that. I went to a bar, after the job was done. May have had a little too much to drink and uhh got into a fight." Arthur raises his hands helplessly, "Look don't worry yourself none, I got away before the law got involved--"

"Well I should hope so!" scoffing incredulously, Dutch seems at a loss for words. "Hosea, are you hearing this? My god Arthur, it's not just your neck on the line here! Imagine if the law had caught you, searched your truck, found the money? It would all have led right back to us!" 

"An' don't you think I know that!" Arthur hisses, "You know I would never put any of you in danger like that! That's why I take the jobs, to protect y'all! So if anything does happen, it's me taking the fall, no-one else!" 

"Oh well that's just fine then! Remind me, just what use to us would you be, rotting in some godforsaken jail cell? Think Arthur!" 

"I…" he crumbles. He had always accepted the responsibility, the chance that he may one day get arrested for what he does for the gang.  
He bore it with a grim kind of reticence, as though it was simply fated that he would one day get caught and wind up exactly like his father. He couldn't see it ending any other way for him truthfully and at least this way, it could mean something, giving himself in the act of protecting the others. But he had never once considered the impact his incarceration would have, who else could provide for them in his absence? John couldn't, he has a family to think of. Dutch and Hosea both are getting long in the tooth. Uncle? Christ, just the thought makes him shudder. Charles maybe…it makes his heart clench to think on though, to inflict that upon the only one of them who had the sense to get out, to find a life, a good, honest life would be senselessly cruel. 

He feels that familiar ache in his chest. The self-loathing, rears its ugly head and whispers in his ear, reminding him of those he's failed thus far, Mary, Eliza…Issac. And now, through his own reckless stupidity how he came so close to losing the last of his family too. 

The frustration, the hatred he feels towards himself in that moment is paralysing. He's caught between just laying down in defeat and lashing out in anger, snapping and snarling at anyone who comes close. Gnawing through his own leg if only to escape the trap he's landed himself in, to mask the true pain he feels under the guise of self defence, when all he truly wants is to commit some blinding act of self destruction, as though that might absolve him of the guilt he feels inside. 

Hosea has remained decidedly quiet throughout the heated exchange, but he makes his presence known now. He speaks carefully, his tone betraying nothing. 

"Arthur, it's for the best if you just go. Spend a few days up at the ranch with Charles and take some time to get your head on straight. Is that agreeable with you Dutch?" He effectively cuts the argument to ribbons.

Arthur knows at this point anything else he could say will just make him sound like a petulant child, so he holds his tongue, drops the bag silently on to the desk and leaves. He catches Charles' eyes on the way out, doesn't break stride just growls, 

"C'mon then, let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope everyone is good! Finally we get some Charles in this chapter:).
> 
> As for the bar fight, you can probably tell its inspired by the one in Valentine with Tommy. I kept Downes a stranger, I didn't really want to draw out the whole process of Arthur contracting TB and the debt collecting hasn't exactly figured into the direction this fic is taking soo yeah
> 
> Anyway best wishes, byye x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's strange, Arthur doesn't know why, but it's like he feels the need to hold himself to a higher standard in Charles' presence. As though maybe he can convince himself he's the kind of man worthy of Charles' attention. But honestly, he just feels like a fraud. As though he's been selling a false bill of goods all this time, conning the man into thinking he's something he's not. Maybe he's been conning himself too, he admonishes ruthlessly. It's just…no matter how hard he tries to be good, to do good, it never sticks, like putting a plaster on a gunshot, it doesn't hide nor absolve the multitude of sins he's committed, the bullet is still there, lodged beneath the skin.
> 
> Maybe that's wherein lies the problem. Him having to think to be good, when it's surely something that should just come naturally, like it seems to come so naturally to Charles. Arthur knows it like he knows the sun rises, Charles is a much better man than himself, and maybe that's why he feels the need to at least try, if only to live up to whatever misguided expectations Charles seems to have of him.

For a while, they simply journey in silence, Arthur still quietly seething in the passenger seat of Charles' truck. Sighing, Charles cautiously ventures, 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"Not particularly, no."

They carry on in silence. It drags and Arthur can feel himself deflating under the weight of it, defensiveness creeping into his tone, 

"Look, I ain't proud of what I did, alright?" 

"I never said you were." Charles retorts cooly. "So… what is it you did, exactly?" 

Arthur visibly struggles, his face contorting, as he tries to conjure the words. 

"I…I 'unno, I just lost control, alright. Couldn't stop myself. This guy at the bar, he was running his mouth, it hit a sore spot I suppose and well that was that. Prolly woulda killed him if this other fella hadn't pulled me off...and I left him in a bad way an' all, coughing his guts up all over the floor, he clearly weren't well, but like hell if that was gonna stop me." 

He lets his hands fall defeatedly into his lap. Charles sighs, eyes back on the road. He's never known a man so encumbered by his own nature. Both of them lost in their own troubled thoughts for now, Charles' mind wanders back to the first time he had crossed paths with the man sat beside him. 

It's strange, Charles had joined the Van der Lindes relatively late into the game, a year, if that, before they had made their final play and then had been forced to all go their separate ways. 

He remembers clearly those first few weeks, after being snapped up by Dutch in some dreary little bar downtown. The man had a magnetism, that much was undeniable, and Charles held enough casual curiosity in the man's offer that he felt compelled to at least check it out. As it turned out, he was set to replace John on security, who, as a newly reformed family man had decided it was time to step back from the riskier side of the job. And so Arthur, proclaimed by Dutch to possess the most experience, had been elected as Charles' shadow for the duration of his probation. He had been weary at first, his first impression was of a big man with a short temper. Crass and abrasive, it was a combination of traits Charles had little time for if he was being honest.

At least, as Charles' designated guardian so to speak, Arthur took his responsibility seriously. He made it crystal clear from day one that under his watch, Charles would have nothing to fear, so long as he listened and followed instruction. Back then, Charles had resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that particular declaration. 

As a relative stranger to their flock, the respect Arthur indisputably commanded amongst the others meant very little to him. Instead Charles couldn't help but be unimpressed by the man's apparent self importance. Not to mention, riled at the implication Arthur didn't trust him to handle himself. But he soon discovered that was not to be the case. Watching from the sidelines he saw that there was an unexpected shrewdness to Arthur's decision making, it seemed the man really did have his best interests at heart after all.

What Charles had first mistaken as ego, was in fact something much more. It was difficult to place, a kind of reticent kindness that lurked beneath the bravado. Charles saw it in the way he treated the girls, how he visibly softened in their presence, or how his eyes lit up when little Jack had some new and exciting discovery to show him. He remembers how peculiar it had all seemed then. How the more he watched, the more incongruities he uncovered. Which only served to stoke the fires of his curiosity further, as though somehow with just enough attention he might be able to solve this mismatched puzzle of a man. 

As far as the job went, whilst they were paired together, Arthur let Charles fight his own battles, a courtesy which had been quietly appreciated at the time. It. Turned out, unlike some of the men at Valentine's, Arthur didn't feel the insatiable need to throw his weight around at all times. Instead, he would simply make his presence known, but he only ever stepped forward if things got truly dicey. In such instances he could disarm the situation with unsettling ease. With just a well disguised threat and a wolf like grin he could send shivers down any man's spine, Charles included. He delivered the perfect balance of unassuming charm and crippling venom to execute the fatal blow. It was captivating watching the man in action, like watching a predator ensnare his prey. And yet, besides that calculating intelligence existed a blind fury, that listened to neither rhyme nor reason. Charles had only seen it once, and he still couldn't pin down exactly how he felt about it, which perturbed him. 

It was Micah, because of course it was. Charles had come across his kind before, a particularly unpleasant breed in his experience. The kind of man who found pleasure in cruelty and the kind of man who actively sought out to be cruel. Charles never did find out exactly what Micah said, and whoever he asked remained decidedly tight lipped about the matter, as though he was treading on scorched earth by merely inquiring. But by all accounts, they could agree that it was bad. 

It had been Charles, with the aid of John that had pulled Arthur off Micah that day, and between the two of them it had still been a struggle. A big man by all rights, Arthur had fought with all his might to finish what he started, spitting and snarling like some crazed beast. 

It was horrifying. Charles was half convinced Arthur had killed the man. Micah was barely even recognisable as such by the time they ripped Arthur off him. Like a sagging sack of raw meat, blood was weeping from every pore, even his breath, ragged and wet. Charles couldn't imagine anyone capable of surviving what Arthur had wrought and yet miraculously Micah had. 

Charles wonders now if that's how the stranger Arthur beat looked too, whether he's even still alive. But perhaps most of all he wonders what the man had said, what it was exactly that could install such unbridled rage in Arthur once more. 

Biting his lip in trepidation, Charles glances over to Arthur now, part of him fearful that he won't recognise the man he sees, that it'll be that rabid imposter wearing Arthur's skin in his place. But it's not. The sight is bittersweet, whilst it is indeed the Arthur he knows, Charles can clearly see the battle that wages within. He wishes there was something he could say to calm the tides, to reassure Arthur in some way, but there's not. Charles fears that the burden Arthur bears is much more complex than he knows, a labyrinthine maze that he has no hope of guiding him out of. 

***

They arrive at the ranch a couple of hours later, the air between them has stilled somewhat, but still, Arthur hangs back awkwardly. 

"So uhh, what's the plan Mr. Smith?" 

Charles inwardly groans at Arthur's relapse. Addressing him by his surname is a well worn habit of Arthur's, slipped into only in the face of some perceived slight. Apparently his sour mood on the journey qualifies as such. It would be endearing if it weren't so exasperating. 

"Well, Mr. Morgan, it's getting late. I'll tend to the new horses, get them stabled for the night, we'll start work on them tomorrow. In the meantime, could you take Ace round the corral, he'll need to burn off some energy before going into his stall."

Arthur doesn't miss Charles' light jab, using his own surname against him. It eases some of the tension he's been feeling since the argument with Dutch, ashamed to have dragged Charles into the crossfire of it all. He perks up a little, 

"So uh, which one is Ace?" 

"Oh, he'll already be in the corral, big ornery bastard, so I imagine you'll both get along with each other just fine." Charles replies smoothly. He turns to leave, pauses, "Oh by the way, my cabin is just over the way. We can meet there once you're let off some steam cowboy." 

Arthur scoffs, but it's only mildly indignant. Chuckling lowly, he shakes his head in disbelief. He should have known Charles would find a way to lift his mood, he always does. He gives a little light hearted finger salute in the man's general direction as he turns and ambles towards his destination. 

Sure enough, he spots the brute from a mile off. A magnificent creature, pure black like an oil slick, his coat gleaming, obviously well cared for. A Dutch warmblood by the looks of it.

Arthur has enough experience with horses to bluster his way through it for the most part. Back when his father was still of the mind to search out honest work, Arthur had spent a good few summers out on ranches, mucking stables and the like. He looks back on those times fondly, he would often spend entire nights in the stables, sketching the creatures, chatting idly to them all the while, they had certainly been better company than his father, even back then, he reflects bitterly. Arthur sighs, of course only he would be able to put a damper on his own mood with such well practiced efficiency. 

He shakes his head, refocuses on the task at hand. Hopping over the fence, he steps towards the horse in question. Keeping his movements measured, he slowly bridges the gap between them. Now, only a couple of feet away, Ace rears, huffing and snorting-clearly voicing his displeasure at this strange man so rudely intruding into his space, but nevertheless, Arthur holds his ground. And once the horse realises that Arthur isn't going anywhere he grudgingly accepts the stranger's presence. Satisfied, Arthur reaches over to pat the beast, and judging by his placid response he feels fairly confident that a decent rapport has been established. So, without allowing any time to second guess himself, he mounts up. 

It's a clumsy ordeal, with no saddle and thus no stirrups to brace his weight on Arthur hauls himself up with all the grace of a beached whale. Naturally, It's also at this point that the bruises on his abdomen decide to bluntly reacquaint him with their presence. He regrets not making the time to find a saddle now. His battered body tensing at the slightest provocation, when ideally he needs to be keeping his posture loose and relaxed. Well, he never did like doing things the easy way. 

He shifts a little in place, getting comfortable as his right hand finds purchase on a tuft of the horse's mane, his left hovering loosely to the side. Ace whickers, stomping his hooves in agitation, to which Arthur mutters soothing nonsense until he feels the tension in the animal's body settle between his legs-that's the one saving grace here at least. With no barrier between them, Arthur can get a far better sense for any fickle change in the beast's temperament, which may well prove to be invaluable depending on how this all shakes out. Well, silver linings he supposes. Deciding that all is well, Arthur gives Ace a very gentle squeeze. The horse lets out a disgruntled snort, but abides. He may be stubborn but without a doubt he's been well trained. Arthur wonders if he has Charles to thank for that. 

He smiles privately to himself at that, he has a lot to thank Charles for in all honesty. The man has an uncanny ability to just cut through all of Arthur's bluster. Anyone else and Arthur might be unsettled, to be seen through so clearly, but with Charles he realises he doesn't mind. A small part of him actually feels relief at the prospect, the chance to just be, to cast away the barriers he puts up, if only for a moment.

He falls into a gentle rhythm with Ace, their bodies reacting to one another in tandem, almost intuitive. The repetitive motion between his legs calms him, a physical distraction to ease the choppy waves which crash and foam inside his mind. His earlier frustration still sits in his gut, but it's no longer a raging fire, it's long since burnt out. But amidst the ashes he's now left feeling raw-exposed. He feels ashamed of the fight with Dutch and Hosea certainly, even more so owing to the fact it was his own idiocy which landed him there as per usual. But deeper, he feels disappointed to have let Charles down. 

It's strange, Arthur doesn't know why, but it's like he feels the need to hold himself to a higher standard in Charles' presence. As though maybe he can convince himself he's the kind of man worthy of Charles' attention. But honestly, he just feels like a fraud. As though he's been selling a false bill of goods all this time, conning the man into thinking he's something he's not. Maybe he's been conning himself too, he admonishes ruthlessly. It's just…no matter how hard he tries to be good, to do good, it never sticks, like putting a plaster on a gunshot, it doesn't hide nor absolve the multitude of sins he's committed, the bullet is still there, lodged beneath the skin. 

Maybe that's wherein lies the problem. Him having to think to be good, when it's surely something that should just come naturally, like it seems to come so naturally to Charles. Arthur knows it like he knows the sun rises, Charles is a much better man than himself, and maybe that's why he feels the need to at least try, if only to live up to whatever misguided expectations Charles seems to have of him. 

He sighs. These thoughts aren't helping anyone. He'll apologise later over dinner, hopefully Charles will have it in his heart to forgive him, but then Arthur can't exactly blame him if he doesn't. Either way, for now he should set to stalling Ace for the night, before it gets too late.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's the dimming light, the brush of their fingers as the cigarette passes between them or maybe it's the proud silhouette of Arthur's profile besides him, reminding him of last night, the moment when Arthur had looked at him like…that. The brevity of it all in that moment is so acute, it's indescribable. Dancing on the edge of a blade, Charles is torn between just taking the leap or continuing this treacherous balancing act. But he can't continue on as he has, and nor does he want to. So he decides to bare, if only just a sliver of himself, to Arthur, in hope of...well he can't say exactly what, just in hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so back again. I definitely made some mistakes in the last chapter, the horse's name for one. I kept changing my mind and didn't double check the final edit too well, but it should be all fixed now...i think. 
> 
> A pretty decent size chapter, I didn't really want to cut it anywhere so here's the whole lot. Heads up, I'm also getting lazier with re-reading it, so apologies for any glaring mistakes. 
> 
> That's pretty much it, thanks and see you in the next one x

Arthur gingerly raps on the door, there's a pause, he can almost hear the exasperated smile in Charles' voice,

"Come in." 

As he closes the door behind him, shucking off his jacket, Charles pipes up, "You know you don't have to knock right? I don't even lock the door, we all know each other here, there's no risk of anything getting stolen or the like."

"Huh." Arthur scratches his chin, "Fair enough. So uh, what'cha got cooking there? Smells real good."

Charles lets out a soft huff. "Nothing too fancy, just a simple casserole, I had some ingredients which needed using up." deftly switching topics he prompts, "So, how did you find it out there with Ace, I hope he didn't give you too much trouble?" 

Arthur lets out a gravelly chuckle, "Nah, nothin' like that, seems he recognised a fellow tricky bastard when he saw one, so we got along just swell, like two peas in a pod. An' turns out my horsemanship skills ain't as rusty as I thought, probably won't test my luck riding 'im bareback again though…" Charles stares at him blankly, incredulous. 

"...You know we have saddles right? We're on a ranch if you hadn't noticed." he says simply, totally deadpan. 

"Alright, point made." he drawls, "It's just, well, I was already there, y' know? An' I figured, me, a surely lookin' lout, walking up to some unsuspecting stable boy and scaring the shit outta him might not go down so well…thought it would just be easier to go without I guess?"

"Jesus Arthur, You know I think you might actually be the first fool alive to say barebacking is easier than the alternative."

Exasperated, but also thoroughly amused, Arthur exclaims playfully, 

"Hey! Who's to say I don't prefer riding bareback huh? Maybe I find it more enjoyable, how about that?"

"Mhm. Well thank you for illuminating me on your uh…'riding preferences', I'll be sure to bear that in mind for future reference." 

There's humour in his eyes when Charles says it, but mortified, Arthur's stomach plummets. He can feel his cheeks already flushing furiously. Like a cornered animal, eyes panicked, he's desperately trying to decipher if Charles is insinuating what he thinks he is. Trying to remember if he's ever let slip about his relations with men in front of Charles, whether he may have said or done something even vaguely incriminating to give him that impression. 

The rational part inside him knows that Charles would not be the type to care, but then, is there ever a type? The fact that he jested about it so casually could very well mean he thinks of it as something to be mocked, to be ridiculed, right? His head is spinning, without thinking he tries to repair the damage,

"Wait, no I didn't mean it like…ah fuck. I mean not that I don't, I'm not against, I just--" Arthur's heart is thundering in his chest, like a train derailing, it's impossible to stop, if anything it accelerates-exponentially, and trapped aboard all he can do is watch in horror as the inevitable crash comes rushing up to meet him from the ground.

Charles' face falls, suddenly realising he's opened a whole can of worms he hadn't anticipated on. Frantically he ushers out soft words of reassurance, attempting to gently guide Arthur off this collision course he's set himself on. 

"Hey, hey, easy, look at me Arthur, I was just joking, ok? It's alright. It's my fault, I didn't mean anything by it, promise. I'm sorry."

Arthur remains rigid, frozen in place. But Charles' words do reach him, coaxing him out of the spiral, momentarily. He slowly processes what he'd said, and once the realisation washes over him, he lets out a flimsy exhale in relief. Woodenly unclenching his fists, only just now realising they were even tensed in the first place. He notes the prickling sensation of his nails biting into the meat of his palm, the sharp pain of it providing him something to focus on, a tether so to speak. 

Crisis narrowly avoided, silence falls between them for a moment, not exactly awkward but neither party seems to know where to go now. Arthur clears his throat, suddenly desperate to excuse himself. 

"So…uh, would you mind if I used your shower? Prolly best if I freshen up before we eat, wouldn't want to put ya off your food." Charles smiles weakly at the attempted humor, he is tone soft, he replies, 

"It's the door on the left, you can find some fresh towels in the laundry basket."

"Much obliged."

***

The bathroom is small, much like his own, it has just enough breathing room between the various amenities to be considered functional. Shirt and pants discarded he gives himself a cursory once over. The bruises have certainly worsened since yesterday. Well, not like he expected any less. As for his face, well…that was pretty much a lost cause to begin with.

Arthur sighs, he lets the water run for a few moments. Today has been one goddamn mess after another. Maybe he should drown himself in the shower he laments. As he steps into the stream of hot water he tries to quash the thoughts clamoring inside his skull but it's useless, vying for attention they demand acknowledgement, so he yields. 

It's odd, he enjoys Charles' company, and they've known each other long enough that Arthur would consider them friends, despite the fact that they rarely spend much time in each other's company these days. Arthur can admit that neither of them are exactly social butterflies, and since the distance between them is almost half a day at best, visiting under the pretense of a simple social call seems a tad superfluous. And so they only ever really end up spending time together if it's work related, like today for example. Arthur frowns, maybe that's what he can chalk today's blunders up to, just sheer clumsiness due to the lack of contact for so long. It's a shoddy excuse, even by his standards, but Arthur decides it's better than admitting the alternative.

As he exits the shower Arthur's stomach then drops, hit with the grim realisation that he hasn't any fresh clothes. It's not a thought that had exactly crossed his mind considering the state he was in when they left. He cautiously sniffs his shirt from earlier, almost reels back from stink. For fucks sake. He peeks his head out from round the door, cringing internally as he hollers down the hallway,

"Hey Charles, uhh, you have any spare clothes I can borrow?" 

He hears the scraping of a chair from the next room and as Charles quietly pads over, he gives Arthur a…look. There's something there, something indecipherable in his eyes, Arthur finds himself getting lost trying to uncover what it is, and then with a snap, it slips through his fingers like water, leaving him wondering if it was even there in the first place. He feels his cheeks flush, hopes it comes off as just the heat from the shower. 

Arthur blinks, Charles is already halfway down the hall, apparently waiting for a response. 

"You…ok? My bedroom is here," confusion creasing in his brow, as Arthur stands there still, dumbfounded. "Unless you want to stay in that towel for the rest of the night?" 

Like of lick of electricity, Arthur is jolted into action then.

"Ah, no--shit. Hang on, I'm coming, I'm coming!" he replies gruffly. He makes sure the towel is securely fastened round his midriff and follows Charles into the other room. He hovers, awkwardly filling the doorway as Charles fishes around in a chest of drawers for something suitable. 

Similarly to the rest of the cabin, it's simply furnished, like the man himself it's straightforward and to the point. But upon closer inspection Arthur can clearly pick out the subtle touches that are uniquely Charles. Small trinkets and photographs scattered about, what looks to be a handmade rug spread beneath the bed, even a few candles, wax dripping down onto his night stand. Arthur had to resist the urge to pick anything up. 

"Here, I can't guarantee they'll fit, but they'll do." Charles hands over a pair of sweats. His gaze lingers on Arthur's chest, he purses his lips. "You should have told me the bruises were this bad. I would have let you stay home, to give you a chance to heal."

Discomfort worming its way into his gut, Arthur does his best to deflect, "It's ok. I...it's better to keep busy and I wanna be here. It was my choice alright Charles, so don't go beating yourself up about it none."

"No I suppose not. You've taken a beating enough for the both of us anyhow." Charles states somewhat bitterly. But his tone lightens, "Sit on the bed, I'll see if I have any salve I can apply to it." 

Arthur does as commanded, waiting patiently while Charles searches. He returns a few minutes later, and indicates for Arthur to scoot over. 

"Stay still alright? It'll probably feel cold, but it should sooth the pain a little."

It does at that. Arthur flinches at the first contact, his back ramrod straight, acutely aware that beneath the thin towel he is, uh…buck naked. But he quickly eases into it, perhaps a little too quickly, Charles' fingers feather light as they dance over his throbbing skin. He has to stopper the contented hum in his chest, he disguises it as a cough as he drums up the courage to speak,

"Hey uh, Charles? Look, I wanna apologise alright, for earlier. I was frustrated…at myself more than anything. But that's no excuse, I shouldn't have let it out on you, so I'm sorry."

Charles smiles gently, "You don't need to apologise Arthur. I just…I wish you hadn't gotten yourself into, well, you know." 

"Yeah…me too." Arthur slumps in on himself, having lanced the wound, he feels it spill out of him now, freely, "I just, sometimes, I feel so outta control. Like I don't even know myself, you know? That man who beat that stranger half to death, I wish I could say that's not who I am, but it is. An' what scares me is knowing that despite my efforts to the contrary…it ain't gonna change that. What I done, what I will do. I wanna be better, to be a good man, but what if all I'm capable of is cruelty, then what, how am I supposed to fight that?" 

Charles feels his heart clench. He's known Arthur long enough to discern that this pain must be old. It runs deep, like water underground and in all the years they've known each other, this is the first time Charles has ever seen it break the surface. It's odd, he sees glimpses of his own reflection in it, The need to reconcile the separate parts of himself, the doubt concerning his place in the world. But he imagines the source for Arthur is much different from his own. Although, not that he even knows enough about Arthur to make an educated guess. 

It's curious, under scrutiny Charles realises that he in fact knows next to nothing about the man sat beside him. For example, where he comes from, who his parents are, even his age is a mystery. It's in that moment, Charles realises that perhaps...he wants to know more. But for now, in the present, he simply tells Arthur what he tells himself, hoping, that much like the balm he's applied to Arthur's damaged skin, that his words too, will help ease some of the pain he is suffering. 

"Listen Arthur…if I've learnt anything in my years, it's that to bring kindness into the world you must first be kind to yourself. If you see yourself as nothing but a brute then that's all you'll ever be." 

For a moment Arthur seems genuinely taken, but then his expression closes off, his tone weary. 

"I…Those are beautiful words Charles. But someone like me? I don't deserve kindness, not from anyone, least of all my--" Charles cuts him off, tries to impress the weight of his next words upon him, suddenly desperate to make them stick, 

"Look, you may not believe it, but I do, I know it. There is a good man inside you Arthur." and before Arthur can protest he continues, "Just think on it, alright? Maybe the notion will grow on you if you let it."

Arthur opens his mouth, but he snaps it shut in the same moment, physically forcing himself to stop digging in his heels like a stubborn mule for once, to back down and accept the kindness for what it is. So he simply says, 

"Thank you." 

Charles smiles, genuinely at that. He eases himself up, giving Arthur's shoulder a firm squeeze as he goes. He doesn't quite know how to round this all off, but he wants to let Arthur know that he recognises the strength it took to speak so openly, to expose what he considers to be the worst parts of himself. He doubts Arthur would bare his soul like that to just anyone… Hosea maybe. 

That knowledge in itself is enough to make his chest flutter. He treasures the feeling, precious and rare that it is. But he can't deny, it provokes a certain anxiety as well. Charles feels unworthy, to have bared witness to Arthur's pain, to listen and not offer anything of his own in return. But, opening up to others…It's always been hard for him, he fears the consequences and not without good reason. The forked scar on his cheek, always to be a cruel reminder of what trusting too much, and in the wrong people can do. For now, he tucks it away, there'll be plenty of time for that later, or so he hopes. 

"Look Arthur, I know it's not easy…admitting parts of yourself you might rather keep hidden, so thank you. As long as you want to talk, I'll be here to listen." He nods, to himself more than anything, "I uh, dinner should be ready, I'll leave you to get dressed, come find me when you're ready."

***  
About ten minutes later, Arthur steps out onto the porch, finding Charles comfortably propped up in a rocking chair. 

The clothes fit well enough, a little tight in places. Whilst Charles is physically built, his arms alone are practically tree trunks, Arthur has an inch or two on him in height, which is making itself apparent now as he tugs awkwardly at the sweater, conscious of his somewhat exposed midriff. Charles doesn't comment, he simply pats the adjacent seat, inviting Arthur to sit. They eat in companionable silence, enjoying the clear sky and the crisp night air. Empty bowls set aside, they shoot the breeze a little, both of them indulging in a quick cigarette before they tuck in for the night. 

"So uh, I'll take the couch, it's only fair--"

"No." there's a sharpness in his tone that surprises the both of them, Arthur looks at Charles quizzically, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Sighing, Charles internally berates himself, and tries again, "C'mon Arthur, the state of you, if you sleep on the couch you're going to be in for a world of pain tomorrow morning. Sleep in my bed, it's not up for debate."

Still reproachful, Arthur tries to catch the other man's eye. With the only light being that which is leaking languidly through the window behind them, Arthur is having a hard time discerning what exactly is going through Charles' head. The dense shadows cling to his face, kissing his cheekbones, trailing down his jawline, and Arthur finds his eyes can't help but linger, tracing the contours of him. He can't tell if Charles is watching, but he can't will himself to stop either. It's almost physical, as if by just looking hard enough, he can feel the brush of Charles' skin beneath his fingertips, the tickle of his breath against his…Arthur swallows tightly, his blood thumping in his ears.

Charles is the first to get up, Arthur wills himself to do the same, stumbling a little, his limbs leaden and his head lighter than air. Charles reaches out to steady him, hand clasped firmly on his shoulder. Arthur can feel his hesitation, but neither of them move. Experimentally almost, Charles begins to rub gradual circles round the corded muscle of his shoulder blade. There's a faint static in the air, a pressure mounting, like the onset of a storm. But it doesn't last, the tension snaps and Charles' hand drops loosely to his side. 

Back indoors, the door now closed on whatever…that was, they both hover in the kitchen as Charles sets the dirty dishes in the sink. Clearing his throat, he's the first to speak, 

"So…you should have everything you need, I think I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. If there's anything else, well you know where to find me." 

"Sure. I, uh thanks Charles. I'll see you in the morning, G'night." 

"Night Arthur."

***

Arthur wakes with a groan. Stretching, he tries to iron out all the aches and pains, with little success. Deciding to acknowledge defeat, he lumbers out of bed, scrubbing roughly at his face, it helps clear his head a little bit. He has a loose attempt at making the bed and then pads down towards the kitchen. 

Charles is already up, sat at the table with a cup of coffee, looking perfectly composed, because of course he does. Arthur can't recollect a time he's even seen Charles remotely dishevelled, the man's like a statue, chiseled out of fucking marble. His eyes flick up, Arthur can only imagine how he looks in comparison, like a crumpled up paper bag most likely. 

"Morning. Sleep well?" 

Arthur scratches his chin, he could do with a shave he ponders distractedly. Clearing the gravel out his voice he replies, "Uh sure. Thanks for loaning me your bed by the way." 

"Don't mention it. Oh the coffee should still be hot, mugs are in the cupboard directly above." 

Arthur nods, shambles over and pours himself a generous serving. He leans against the counter casually, sipping away. He peeks cautiously over at the other man. The events of last night, still sitting heavy in his mind. Charles is seemingly unfazed though, so Arthur figures to let it lie. No point bringing it up now, he reckons. Instead, he asks, 

"So, what's the plan?" 

"Well I figured we could work with Gale today.  
I've already done most of the groundwork, she leads fine, but she's still skittish and I want to address that sooner rather than later. So we're really just going to be working on desensitising her to contact with people other than myself, hence," he gestures to Arthur, "your assistance. And…if all goes well, maybe we'll work on some lunging by the end of the day."

Arthur nods thoughtfully, taking it all in. "Alright, sounds fine to me, lemme just freshen up and we can get started." he pauses, whilst Charles watches bemusedly from the sidelines, "and uh, so I'm just gonna wear my jeans, they're fine, but could I borrow an old tee or somethin'? I wouldn't want to subject you to the view of me shirtless again, nor the rest of the ranch at that." He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. 

"Seeing you topless isn't exactly a hardship Arthur." Charles states innocently. Arthur chokes, cheeks aflame as he clears his throat. Charles conceals an indulgent smile behind his mug, continuing on as though nothing had happened, "But in any case, have a look in the bottom drawer, I'm pretty sure there's some old shirts in there."

Like a deer in headlights, Arthur stumbles out the room, mumbling to no one in particular, 

"I uh, right. Be back in a bit."

Once Charles hears the door close he sets his cup down. He supposes he should really stop teasing Arthur, it's not exactly fair. It's just…there's something undeniably endearing about watching that man, usually tough as nails, display such candid innocence. To see him unshackled briefly, from the pain and anger he seems to carry like a chain around his neck.  
Charles feels like he's catching a glimpse of an Arthur rarely seen by others. Maybe a younger Arthur, one that still allowed himself to hope, to dream for something more. Charles finds himself wanting to gently uncover that side of him, withered away as it is. To give it the light of day, to let it flourish and grow into something new. 

But he knows he can't rush Arthur. Despite the front he puts on, Charles can sense the vulnerability there, that lurks beneath the surface. Push too hard and the whole lot may just come crashing down. 

***

Gale is a sweet little thing, a dapple grey thoroughbred, still growing into her legs. But Charles isn't wrong, she startles easily. They start with Arthur approaching her stall, her favoured treats in hand, peppermints. And after lipping up a good handful she becomes more than amenable to his presence. Charles now watches on affectionately, as Arthur dotes on her, scratching her nose, chucking bashfully when she knocks off his hat. 

They don't get as much done as Charles had initially hoped, but Gale seems to have progressed in leaps and bounds regardless. He doesn't know whether to feel pleased or dismayed at the result. 

Thanks to Arthur's influence, a cheeky little streak has emerged in her, the two of them becoming thick as thieves by the end of the day. Much to Charles' continued exasperation, she'd blatantly disregard commands they both knew she full-well understood. When the two men took the occasional break she'd sneak up on them, pilfering their pockets in search of treats, which Arthur found hilarious. And whenever Charles called her out on any of it, she'd make a grand show of trotting over to her new favourite person, Arthur. Preening for attention as he offered hushed words of consolation, as though Charles had committed some heinous atrocity against her. 

Charles sighs, it seems he got more than he bargained for with the both of them. Leaning against the fence they share a smoke, observing their handiwork for now, Gale is happily grazing, tail flicking away breezily, without a care in the world. Arthur clears his throat, 

"Hey Charles…why, why did you stay with us after all that shit in Chicago? I ain't complainin', I just…" he tails off. Charles tries to hide his surprise, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere. 

Maybe it's the dimming light, the brush of their fingers as the cigarette passes between them or maybe it's the proud silhouette of Arthur's profile besides him, reminding him of last night, the moment when Arthur had looked at him like…that. The brevity of it all in that moment is so acute, it's indescribable. Dancing on the edge of a blade, Charles is torn between just taking the leap or continuing this treacherous balancing act. But he can't continue on as he has, and nor does he want to. So he decides to bare, if only just a sliver of himself, to Arthur, in hope of...well he can't say exactly what, just in hope. 

"Well before the gang, for so long I felt I just… didn't belong. Not enough of any one thing to be fully accepted anywhere. Not with my mother's people, not with my father's people, but too much of either to be considered as anything else. With the gang I saw a chance, a chance for belonging that is. And part of me felt…perhaps selfishy, that after feeling directionless for so long, that maybe being a part of something bigger than myself would give my life purpose."

Inexplicably nervous, Arthur swallows past the lump in his throat, prompts, "...Did it?" 

A wistful smile dances across Charles' lips, like the sun setting, it's brilliant, blinding, and then it's gone. 

"Yes and no. After everything that happened, I feel now...maybe there's a greater power in making purpose for yourself. Rather than just blindly following a path because it's easier. It's not easy here, but it is simple, and sometimes the simple things are what give you the most pleasure, no? Tending to the animals, or like now, talking with friends…these are the things that make me happy I've realised."

For a moment, Arthur just ponders his words in silence, tries to let them sit. He stares at Charles, eyes like wells, open and reflective, and yet simultaneously unknowable, boundless depths flickering just beneath the surface. He's searching for something, what he cannot say. The way he feels towards Charles in this moment, inscrutable even to himself. Even Charles, usually steady as a rock seems a little disarmed, either by his own candor or Arthur's bizarre reaction. Voice rough, Arthur simply says, 

"Y'know, I reckon you might be onto something there."

"Glad you think so." 

They both smile, shyly, afraid to trample on this tentative something, blooming between them. Charles lets out a huff, shaking his head incredulously as he pushed himself away from the fence post, 

"You know, you're a strange one Mr. Morgan."

"So I've been told."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as it terrifies him, there's that tiny, irrefutable kernel of hope lodged firmly inside him. All this time, it's been growing unbeknownst to him and now, utterly dwarfed by it's sheer enormity, he can't find himself thinking about anything else. It's ridiculous, the notion that he of all people could deserve, could be loved by someone like Charles…it's unimaginable. And yet, here is imagining, hoping, for just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello:) 
> 
> Man, I can't believe this is already 7 chapters in and still a ways to go yet. I have vague chapters in the works, but stitching them all together is the most time consuming part at the moment. No real schedule, but I'm hoping to keep uploading at a similar pace, at least until I have to go back to work, possibly next week. 
> 
> In any case, I hope everyone is keeping well, thanks for reading x

In the weeks to come, Arthur makes a habit of excusing himself up to the ranch whenever possible. No-one exactly comments on it, but still, he feels their eyes on his back, picks up on the bemused glances Dutch and Hosea share whenever he explains where he's going for a few days. 

It doesn't bother him per se, but there's something there...a splinter, worming its way into his heart. It's not quite enough to get his hackles up, it's more akin to the need to preserve, to protect that precious something between him and Charles, too scared to quite put it into words just yet. His thoughts tumble back down to earth when he hears the fire door open. 

"You don't mind if I join you Arthur?" ah, it's Abigail. 

"Not at all. smoke?" 

"Go on then, twist my arm." A mischievous glint in her eye, she leans over and allows Arthur to light her up. She takes in a hearty drag, puffing the smoke up above their heads. "I should really quit. I know John hates it, and I'm pretty sure he's cottoned on as to why I take so many breaks at this point."

"Yeah…well, he's a fine one to talk, just tell him you take so many breaks for the pleasure of my company." he replies cooly. 

"Hah! Yeah that'll go down like a lead balloon." 

The smoke in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the sharp night air, a welcome respite from the unbearable heat of late. 

"You going back up to the ranch this weekend?" She brings up casually. Arthur throws over a sidelong glance, sensing there's more to the seemingly innocent question. Taking a moment to consider his answer, he pulls a lazy drag, talking on the exhale, 

"Mhm. Gotta transport some horses, in exchange for a new stud by the sound of it. It's a long drive, figured Charles could use some company."

"You've been going up there a lot huh." 

Not exactly a question but Arthur squirms under the weight of it. Unsure how to respond he just states lamely, 

"Uhuh."

She smiles indulgently, that spark back in her eye. "You know, I'm happy for you Arthur, this is good alright, so don't go messing it up now you hear?"

Arthur balks, and she grins delightedly, having been provided the confirmation she needed. 

"Hey, I don't know what you think is going on between me and Charles but it ain't like that between us alright? I don't even know if he…" he gesticulates uselessly, "and you know, even if he did, doubt it would be with the likes of me." he scuffs at the dirt, head downcast. 

She gives him a gentle squeeze on the arm, drawing his gaze up to meet hers, 

"Hey now, I wouldn't be so sure alright? Charles obviously enjoys your company, and whenever y'all are here together, well I've seen the way he looks at you, like you hung the moon on a string, practically."

He lets her words sit for a moment, mulling them over in his head. He feels giddy and squeamish all at once, suspicion and boyish hope, both wrestling within him as he answers,

"...For real, you ain't just saying that?" 

"Honest. But you'll never know for sure if you don't take the leap, so you gotta let him know Arthur, all cards on the table." 

"Yeah...yeah, you're right. I just, I don't wanna risk losing what we already got, you know?" 

"Mm I can understand that. But I reckon it's a gamble worth taking." she says sagely. Now, having finished her cigarette, she crushes it under her boot. Giving Arthur a playful little shove she decides to leave him with an ultimatum, 

"So next time we're out here, 'not smoking', you better have some news for me Arthur!" She turns on her heel and Arthur hears the fire exit slam behind her. 

After that little whirlwind, the night now seems uncomfortably quiet, like it's holding it breath, waiting for Arthur to decide exactly what the hell he's going to do about all…this.

"Jesus woman…there's really no keeping any secrets from you huh?" he grouses half heartedly, to no one in particular. 

The thing is, despite his fussing, Arthur can't deny there's a comfort in being able to talk like this. He's not too proud to admit it, nor too encumbered by some misguided notion of masculinity, that dictates emotional transparency makes one less of a man. Looking back, It's these little chats he misses with the other girls, Mary-Beth and Tilly, even Karen at times. To be heard, sincerely and without judgment, and to lend a sympathetic ear in turn. He can't exactly open up about these things to anyone else. John, whilst having shown some improvement over the years, still possesses the emotional nuance and dexterity of a sheet of drywall, particularly when it comes to navigating the finer intricacies of relationships. 

There's always Hosea. But admittedly, concerning matters of the heart, Arthur feels a little awkward confessing all his lovelorn daydreams to a man he considers as much a father figure as anything else. It would be akin to having that obligatory discussion about the birds and the bees, well intentioned but undeniably uncomfortable for both parties involved. 

Not to mention, whatever this is with Charles, perhaps selfishly, he wants to keep it between themselves, for a while longer, at least until he knows for certain, exactly what 'it' is. Either way, he's not quite ready to invite the scrutiny of the others just yet. As well intentioned as it may be, Arthur dreads the time when he'll have to drag this all under the spotlight, like some kind of side show attraction. He ain't naive, whilst the gang will be undoubtedly supportive, it's not them he has to worry about. Nor Charles, who, simply by the colour of his skin, will be at far greater risk. Jesus...he fucking hates the south. 

Sighing, Arthur finishes off the last of the cig. Wheezing slightly, the dregs catch in his throat. He really should quit, he thinks idly. 

***

The following morning he packs his bag for the trip. A few spare shirts, underwear, pants, that should do it. He then, after some deliberation, picks a shirt for now. He ends up going for his favourite blue button down, the one with the neat little pinstripe running through it. Simple, but a little more dressy than his usual ensemble. 

Now in the bathroom, Arthur figures he should probably shave if they're going to be out on the road for a few days. Working up a lather he grabs his razor, gets it as close as he can. He splashes his face dry, inspecting himself pensively in the mirror, better he supposes.The bruises have all but gone now, maybe just the odd faint patch of green to hint at what had transpired all the weeks ago. 

Sighing, he turns his attention elsewhere, his hair to be precise. It's a mess. An unruly flop that is steadily creeping past his ears, almost brushing his shoulders at this point. He wets it, that does fuck all. So, he scrabbles around in the cabinet, finds some jar of product tucked at the very back, and applies a generous helping all over. The results are…questionable. Scowling, he doesn't even know why he's bothered, they're literally just going to be sat in a truck for two days straight. He checks his watch, fuck, he's already running behind, jamming everything haphazardly back into the cabinet, he jogs back to his room, snatches up his bag and leaves. 

On the drive up to Charles' his mind circles back to what Abigail had said. She's right, of course she is, but still, the actual prospect of confessing his feelings…it makes his palms sweat, makes him consider just turning around right now and driving his truck off the face of the earth. 

But he doesn't. Because as much as it terrifies him, there's that tiny, irrefutable kernel of hope lodged firmly inside him. All this time, it's been growing unbeknownst to him and now, utterly dwarfed by it's sheer enormity, he can't find himself thinking about anything else. It's ridiculous, the notion that he of all people could deserve, could be loved by someone like Charles…it's unimaginable. And yet, here is imagining, hoping, for just that. Christ, thirty six fucking years old and he's pining like a school boy. 

Suddenly, all too desperate for a distraction, something to settle his nerves, Arthur nabs a cig from the pack in his pocket, jams it in his mouth and lights up. Bouncing with anxious energy Arthur lets out a jittery breath through the cracked window. He turns his head and coughs. Grimacing, he tries to remember when that first started…maybe a week or two ago, nothing serious but still, persistent enough to have become somewhat aggravating. Naturally, it would be just his luck to come down with something now. One handed his fumbles around in his glove box, fishes out the little pack of aspirin and pops a couple, hopefully that'll keep it at bay. He makes his turn, he's almost at the ranch now. 

He rolls up the dirt track, stopping just outside the driveway to the main house. Bag in hand he makes the trek over to Charles' cabin, and sure enough, there's the man himself, perched in his usual spot, feet kicked up on the front porch.

Arthur can't help but smile, returning Charles' little wave as he closes the gap. A little breathless as he draws closer, he rasps, 

"Hey Charles, ya good?"

"I'm good now," he smiles. He looks Arthur up and down, then a coy look flits across his face, scrutinising something, he stifles a snicker, he asks, 

"Did you…do something to your hair?" 

"Huh?" then Arthur remembers, "Shit…is it really that bad?" 

Charles tries to compose himself, but it bubbles up, unbidden, all he can manage is a tight lipped, "No…?" before erupting into peels of laughter. 

A little peeved that his efforts have gone unappreciated, Arthur shakes his head, but he chuckles all the same, the sound of Charles laughing bright and clear, like music to his ears. Arthur stands there and waits for the man to finish, hands on his belt, grinning stupidly. 

"Alright, alright, maybe I got a little over enthusiastic, but hey, can you fault a man for trying? 'Specially when looking at what I gotta compete with!" he gestures helplessly to Charles, who, as though just to prove his point, has chosen to wear his hair loose today, the length of it cascading effortlessly down his back. 

Charles concedes, smiling warmly, 

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry. I just, you surprised me is all, you look good Arthur, and I like your shirt, it brings out your eyes."

"Alright, you don't gotta go stroking my dick, I ain't that sore over it." he grumbles. 

For once it's Charles' turn to be rendered speechless. He knows Arthur isn't exactly a shrinking violet, but still, the unexpected crassness throws him for a loop. It leaves him trying to puzzle out whether Arthur's being deliberately provocative or if he's just messing. So…this is how it feels huh. But he's getting distracted, back to his original point, 

"No I mean it!" his voice earnest. Unimpressed, Arthur drops him a scathing look, 

"Yeah, yeah, come on, are we going or are we going?" 

***

With the horses settled in the trailer, they pile into Charles' truck and set off. A few miles down the road Charles clears his throat, 

"So, It's probably best if we drive in shifts, you wanna to catch some sleep now?" he offers. 

"Mm, makes sense. Sure, I can sleep now." Arthur wriggles off his jacket and pads it against the window as a makeshift pillow. Settling down, he tips his hat over his eyes and is apparently out like a light. Incredulous, Charles mutters to himself in disbelief, that man and his god given gift to fall asleep just about anywhere. Eyes forward, he cracks the window a little, and prepares himself for the long drive ahead. 

Arthur wakes with a start. The truck has stopped and it's dark outside that much is clear. Disoriented, he aimlessly fumbles around, trying to regain his bearings. 

"Ah…hey Charles, urgh, how long was I out?" 

Charles hms, "It is…8pm so almost twelve hours?" 

"Christ, no wonder I feel like shit. Huh, wait, where are we, we there yet?" 

"Not even close, I stopped so we could stretch our legs, and swap over if that's fine with you?" 

"Sure, sounds fine." still groggy, Arthur is unable to do much more than agree, his head is buzzing, his thoughts white noise. 

They both step out of the truck, taking a gratuitous moment or two to stretch. A little refreshed, Arthur now takes in his surroundings. Squinting, he then spots the gas station behind them, glowing obnoxiously, like a gaudy beacon in the night. Charles gives him an empathetic pat on the shoulder as he circles round to the trailer,

"You go ahead first, I'll see to the horses and then we'll swap."

Arthur provides a loose thumbs up and ambles towards the station, like a moth to a flame. The fluorescent light is even more unbearable inside he decides. It pierces behind his eyes, and vibrates mercilessly inside his skull. The air conditioning, not exactly helping either, he notes. The chill clings to his clammy skin, it altogether leaves him feeling vaguely nauseated. 

Refocusing, Arthur makes a loose checklist of what he wants and without really processing the selection of products laid out before him, he makes his tawdry procession up and down the aisles, grabbing a couple of sandwiches, some snacks, a can of energy drink, on second thought, water too and some deodorant. As he waits for the cashier to ring him up he asks roughly, 

"Uh can I get some cigarettes too, Camels if you got them? Oh and you got aspirin?" 

The cashier nods, grabbing both from behind the counter and adds them to the total. 

"That everything, any fuel?" 

"Oh. Nah, that's it thanks." 

After paying, distractedly, Arthur gathers up his purchases and steps back out into the dry texan heat. He squints, searching for Charles across the parking lot, but comes up short. Shrugging, he must be round the back of the trailer Arthur supposes. 

He looks around, and finds the toilets tucked round the corner. First on the agenda, he gives himself and his clothes a liberal dousing in spray. Grimacing at the smell, he coughs into his sleeve, the excess catching in the back of his throat, making his eyes stream. Cracking the water next, he chugs about half of it, and finishes off the rest with a couple of aspirin. He feels…odd, maybe he really is coming down with something. Then he remembers he hasn't eaten anything all day, well that would do it. No fucking wonder he's running on fumes. He splashes his face with a little water, and decides he best go relieve Charles of his duties. 

Whilst waiting for Charles to finish up, Arthur lights up a cig. The weight of it is reassuring in his hand, and the warmth settles in his chest, smoothing out his nerves a little. Feeling brighter, he pokes his fingers through the trailer, chuckling as he feels the huff of hot breath and tickle of one of the horses lipping his hand, in search of treats. 

"Sorry girls, I ain't got anything for ya."

He wipes his hand on his pants, decides he has time for one more smoke. Leaning against the trailer he lazily watches his surroundings pass him by, late night semis barrelling down the highway, a few other night owls, pumping gas. 

He's overcome by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia then. Suddenly he's an eighteen year old kid again, both excited and terrified to find himself out on the road, totally alone in the world. He remembers, even then, he always felt a certain electricity, a static in the air when occupying spaces like this, late at night. It's both unsettling and reassuring. The comfort felt in absolute solitude and yet that elusive discomfort, that unshakeable sensation of being observed, phantom eyes pressing down on the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. Sometimes he wishes he could bottle that feeling, somehow distill it, just for the fascination of it. His fingers itch for his journal, as though he might be able to commit it to paper. But he hasn't picked it up in years, he doesn't even know why. Well, no, that's not strictly true, he knows why. Even now, the weight of his last entries, following their deaths, too much to bear. He'd long ago accepted that he could not, would not reopen that chapter in his life. So, like a coward, he'd buried it away, tucked it inside a little box to gather dust, to be slowly forgotten. 

Startled out of his reverie, he feels a hand gently press against his shoulder,

"You alright?" 

"Huh? Shit, sorry, I was miles away there Charles." Absentmindedly he stubs out the cigarette, brushing off the excess ash that had gathered on his shirt. 

"Ok, well I'm ready if you are?" 

"Sure, let's go." Without thinking Arthur squeezes Charles' arm as he passes by, hand lingering a little too long, suddenly not wanting to let go at all. With all those lonesome thoughts still swimming through his head, he finds himself yearning for an anchor, someone to share it all with.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing thickly, Arthur clumsily grasps for the pack of cigs in his front pocket, tremors dancing along his nerve endings, it's a while before he can finally get the flame to take. Taking a quick puff, he then offers it to Charles. 
> 
> He considers Arthur for a moment and then, wordlessly accepts. Arthur watches, eyes trailing over him, engrossed in the casual posture of his hand, the line of his jaw, as Charles takes a slow, heavy pull, then passes the cigarette back, challenging Arthur to do the same. Wetting his lips, Arthur finishes it off, savouring the sensation, allowing it to spread, settling languidly in his lungs. He clears his throat roughly, 
> 
> "Charles, I…this. This thing between us, I ain't just imagining it, am I?"
> 
> "You tell me." Hushed, and in that low timbre of his, Charles replies.

They arrive at their destination the next evening. It's been a long, uncomfortable few days. Thankfully the gentleman they're trading with seems to sense both men's tethers are frayed, as if it weren't obvious by their dishevelled appearances. He offers to hold onto the stud for the night, freeing Arthur and Charles up to find a motel, to freshen up and sleep in an actual bed for a few hours. An offer that is gratefully received by the both of them. 

Upon the man's directions, they find themselves at a spot just out of town, it's decent enough. The double story room blocks form a U, wrapping round a rather forlorn looking, vaguely kidney bean shaped pool. It's only audience, besides themselves, a few tattered deck chairs and a withered umbrella. Essentially, it's just the same as every motel Arthur has stayed at on his extensive travels, a somewhat sordid affair. A faded memory, plastered over and over in cheerful pastels, as though with just enough licks of paint you might be convinced that this is a place people could actually enjoy staying in. 

But In Arthur's experience, people who stay at motels rarely find any enjoyment there, and rarely do they have a choice in the matter. No, the strings that pull desperate folks to places like these are not the kind that can't be cut away easily. Whether it's trading drugs, guns, people or lord knows what else, It's a cruel web that ensnares even the best of folks, and it's always just a matter of time before they get chewed up and devoured by it, one way or another. 

Charles looks over his shoulder from up ahead, calls out, 

"You coming Arthur?" 

Snapping out of his musings he replies, "Mm yeah, right behind ya."

***

Whilst Charles freshens up, Arthur finds himself wandering the surrounding area, figuring his companion might appreciate some time to himself for a few hours. 

He's still feeling a little rough around the edges, but nothing a good night's sleep won't fix he figures. No, what's dancing in the forefront of his mind is his impending deadline. He's painfully aware that the proverbial clock is ticking, and honestly, tonight is probably the night to do it, if he really is serious about telling Charles how he feels. 

The problem being, he hasn't the faintest notion on to go about it. The last person he truly courted was Mary. Well, in the way a blockheaded teenager considers hiding notes and sneaking out late at night to be courting. And With Eliza, well…if anything, it was a kind of mutual heartache that saw their paths cross, both of them recognising the desperate longing for a real connection in one another. it wasn't so much a romance as it was a partnership, simply riding out a storm together, to then be blessed with the gift of little Issac along the way. 

With Charles, it's different. There's a hunger there, that even in the confines of his own mind, feels unbecoming. As though he's tempting some kind of divine retribution by simply thinking such things. But it's not just that, Arthur realises he has hopes for a future. Not the kind of fantasy he and Mary conjured up, a fanciful dream that neither of them could find themselves quite living up to. Nor the future that could have been with Eliza. A relationship founded on a mutual understanding sure, but lacking in just about everything else that defined a romantic love in the end. 

No, with Charles, he feels like there's a chance for something…true. It's difficult to describe. Perhaps it's simply the notion of being accepted without conditions. That maybe, just being himself, is enough. That even as he is, he is deserving of love. Arthur thinks back to those words Charles had said all those weeks ago, about opening up to goodness, before giving it in kind. It hit a nerve and he supposes love is much the same. 

Glancing up, he notices he's stumbled upon what appears to be the main street of this dreary little town they've found themselves in. Most storefronts are shuttered, but a few down the way catch his eye. First and foremost, he spots the liquor store on the corner. Hovering outside the entrance, initially Arthur hesitates, the spectre of that night with Eliza, weighing on his mind. He refuses for tonight to become a reiteration of what happened then, of that much he's adamant. The act of two lonely souls, so insecure in their own ability to love and be loved that they treat bedding one another as something to be ashamed of, to be forgotten. To tarnish something worthy of deference with the crude sways of alcohol, all in the belief that they surely deserve nothing less.

No, to repeat the mistakes of that night, it would be disrespectful to Eliza and it would be disrespectful to Charles. Tonight, he will do better, be better. And whilst he doubts Eliza is much capable of caring now, it's important to him, to respect her memory. To acknowledge that she deserved more than what he gave her. And whilst that in itself can never repair the damage of the past, there may be some comfort in knowing that it will at least, not become the future. 

Firm in his resolution, Arthur turns on his heel. This, he wants to remember, he needs to. To know that it is serious, that it ain't to become just some casual fling, to be swept under the rug in time, or to be occasionally dusted off when the fancy passes. No, it has to be all or nothing. Anything in between and that would be it he figures. The final nail, serving to break his foolish heart, once and for all. 

So, it's decided. Even if tonight doesn't go as planned, and Charles doesn't feel the same, Arthur will accept that as graciously as he's able. Although it will undoubtedly be painful, it can surely be no worse than the alternative. And this way, he can rest assured by the notion that they never did something stupid, that they would both end up regretting.

A little disorientated by his own abrupt epiphany on the matter, Arthur glances around, taking solace in the fact that no one was around to observe that particular episode. Mind set, he checks the time. He should probably make tracks, wouldn't want to make Charles worry. 

Well, now that alcohol is decidedly out of the question, he supposes dinner is next on the menu. With that in mind, he picks up some food from a little burger joint on the way back. Unsure what Charles might want he gets one of each special, and figures he'll just take whatever Charles doesn't want. 

Now, having reached his destination, he simply stares down the motel across the street, as though preparing to enter the gates of hell. Anxiety still churns inside him, but there is a certain sense of calm to be had as well. In the knowledge that, by the end of tonight, at least things will be certain. Steeling himself, he juggles the bags cradled in his arms into a less precarious position, and then steps off the curb. 

***

Clumsily unlocking the door to their room, Arthur hollers, 

"You in here Charles?" 

He catches the tail end of Charles' muffled reply. He must be in the bathroom Arthur muses. He sets down the bags on the small table by the window, draws the curtains and flops onto the bed. He's about to flick on the TV when he hears the door crack, a rush of dewy steam pours out, like curling fingers, dissipating almost as soon as it's been released. And then, there's Charles. 

Utterly dumbstruck, Arthur has practically peel his jaw off the floor. With just a towel wrapped around his waist Arthur's eyes don't know where to look first, his eyes lingering on everything and nothing all at once. 

But, apparently, unphased by inconsequential notions of modesty, or Arthur's blatant gawking for that matter, Charles sheds the towel and begins to get dressed. It takes a moment for Arthur to process exactly what he's seeing, but then it hits him, with all the force of a freight train. Reeling, Arthur recoils, as though a pan of scalding water has just been thrown into his lap.  
In a frenzied attempt to afford the man some privacy he all but launches himself off his bed, turning to face the window, blushing furiously, he hisses, 

"Shit Charles, give a man some warning before ya…I mean, you know!" 

"Why, does it make you uncomfortable?" Totally unaffected, he replies. 

Tentative, Arthur turns. Squinting through his eyelashes, to see Charles now loosely towel drying his hair. Thank god the man is now at least wearing some pants.

"Well…no, but Christ alive Charles! You can't just…I mean, you go undressing like that and you'll give a fella all kinds of ideas, I'll tell you that much." he huffs weakly, heart still hammering against his ribs. 

"And what kind of ideas would those be?" smooth as velvet, comes his reply. 

Not even remotely equipped to offer a response to…that. Arthur remains silent. Electing instead, to occupy himself with rummaging through the bags of food, he clears his throat, 

"Alright, well. Do you want, uhh…the 'chicken supreme' or the bacon cheeseburger?" 

"I'll take the chicken." 

Nodding distractedly, Arthur mumbles, "Sure, fine by me."

Self conscious, he can still feel Charles' eyes on him. Hands wringing, Arthur searches blindy for some kind of distraction. All too desperate to escape the suddenly stifling air of their room and the all the more stifling thoughts crowding his head, he ends up inquiring, 

"Hey, so I was thinkin', you wanna go down by the pool to eat?" 

Charles throws him a curious look, but doesn't comment, simply says, 

"Sure, let me just finish up and we can head down."

***

The night, hot and black, bears down on them, coating most everything it touches, dripping, like tar. It weighs on Arthur's chest, he can feel the sweat prickle on the nape of his neck, tacky and uncomfortable. As they meander down the balcony, overhead lamps intermittently punctuate the darkness, bathing them both in a grainy orange glow. Charles drifts on ahead, but Arthur finds himself lingering, transfixed. It's almost as though he's peering through amber, admiring some immaculate creation, an otherworldly vignette, frozen in time. Charles turns, and the barrier shatters. Like a fish on the line, Arthur is pulled towards him. 

As they reach the pool, it offers them a little more by ways of illumination. The underwater lighting casts eerie blooms, undulating ceaselessly. It holds a peculiar beauty Arthur thinks, something so elegant, in a place so ordinary. Like a diamond in the rough, a poor man's aurora borealis. 

Arthur shucks off his boots, letting them land haphazardly to one side. Balling up his socks he then adds those to the pile and pads over to the water's edge, dipping his toes in. Behind him, he hears Charles do the same. Apprehension coiled taught inside him, Arthur fixes his gaze on the water, lost in thought. He feels Charles settle down besides him, can feel the steady heat radiating off him. 

They sit side by side whilst they eat, enjoying the lull. Both dog tired from their days on the road, they find there's not much to say, but it's not uncomfortable. Much like the sensation of the water, now lapping at his feet, Arthur finds that just the simple comfort of Charles' company is enough to alleviate the stress of the past few days. All the doubt simply ebbs away, polished smooth like a river stone. And Arthur just knows, in that moment, with unabashed clarity that he wants Charles, more than anything, more than anyone he has ever wanted. 

Swallowing thickly, Arthur clumsily grasps for the pack of cigs in his front pocket, tremors dancing along his nerve endings, it's a while before he can finally get the flame to take. Taking a quick puff, he then offers it to Charles. 

He considers Arthur for a moment and then, wordlessly accepts. Arthur watches, eyes trailing over him, engrossed in the casual posture of his hand, the line of his jaw, as Charles takes a slow, heavy pull, then passes the cigarette back, challenging Arthur to do the same. Wetting his lips, Arthur finishes it off, savouring the sensation, allowing it to spread, settling languidly in his lungs. He clears his throat roughly, 

"Charles, I…this. This thing between us, I ain't just imagining it, am I?"

"You tell me." Hushed, and in that low timbre of his, Charles replies. 

In that moment, everything stops. A slow motion countdown, Arthur's breath stills, as does the world with him. The only sound, his heat beat, pounding in his ears. Arthur feels himself lean in, feels the crackle of electricity lighting a trail down his spine as he does. No longer able to fight the tide, adrenaline reaching fever pitch, burning him up from the inside out, Arthur closes his eyes and brushes his lips chastley against Charles'. 

Breath catching in his throat, hesitating, Arthur pulls back. Uncertainty clouding his eyes, momentarily tempering the flames. Teetering on the precipice, he studies Charles' expression, searching, waiting for his answer. And Charles, intent on obliging, leans forward, cupping Arthur's jaw in his hand with a reverence that makes his heart just sing. His thumb, tracing lightly over Arthur's lips, eyes lidded, he whispers, 

"Kiss me." 

Unbridled, Arthur eagerly bridges the gap, crashing into him with the force of a charging bull. Startled, It takes a moment for Charles to accommodate his frenetic dash to the race line, a brusque grunt escaping his throat as Arthur's lips rove hungrily over his own, the intensity of it, blistering. 

But they find rhythm with one another soon enough. His chest heaving, Arthur slows, inviting Charles to take the lead, which he indulges, gladly. Deliberately, Charles eases their pace, allowing each moment to stretch, slow and sweet, like honey. And then, teasing, he nips at Arthur's lip, delighting in the shuddering gasp that escapes him. 

Eyelids fluttering, Arthur can't help but notice the throbbing in his gut, the intoxicating, the insatiable pull of arousal. The weight of it, rich and heavy, tethers him down and yet, in the same moment, it makes him feel as light as air. Free as a bird with a summer breeze under its wings. It's dizzying, euphoric, setting him aflame, it's like nothing else Arthur has ever felt.

Greedily, his hands clammer for more, tugging at Charles' shirt, snaking underneath, and pressing firmly into the small of his back, cinching them closer. Smile quirking against his lips, Charles places his hands atop Arthur's forearms, gently guiding him back to resting on his hips. 

"Easy there, cowboy." he growls. 

Breaking away, panting doggedly, Arthur just lets his eyes roam, taking in all of Charles. The ruddy glow of his cheeks, the shapely curve of his cupid's bow, the slight sheen of sweat beading on his chest. He could happily sit here for hours on end, uncovering, and adoring all those fine details. But for now, he simply lets out a contented sigh. Arthur closes his eyes, collapsing in a boneless heap onto Charles' broad shoulder. 

"Fuck. You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." he rasps. 

Smiling fondly, Charles leans in to him, nestling his head in the crook of Arthur's shoulder. Closing his eyes he takes a moment just to breathe him in, then murmurs, 

"Well, that makes two of us." 

They linger, neither much wanting to disrupt the moment, but as with most things, it can't last forever. A car door slams somewhere, cracking like a gunshot and then, like the surface of water, tensile, everything just snaps back into place. Charles sighs, 

"We should probably head back to our room. Get some sleep."

"Mm, yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god this chapter destroyed me. Still not 100% on it, but I also know that I'm sick of looking at it, so here we are lol.
> 
> Hope everyone's good. As usual I'm blanking on anything of substance to say, so just thanks for reading and I'll be back around at some point xx


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since….this, ever since him, it seems something akin to hope, has taken root inside Arthur, hesitant as it may still be. The urge to crawl out of his wounds, to let go of that pain, to jump off that cliff, trusting that Charles will be there to catch him in the fall. And Christ, is he falling hard. Arthur wouldn't dare say those fateful words just yet, but he feels them, all the same. Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, so it's been a while, i hope everyone is well! I'm still definitely busy working away at this fic, promise. I'm just really bad at writing in order, so I've actually just been jumping ahead and then I'm forced to come back and try and connect all the dots, rip. 
> 
> But anyway, not too much happens this chapter, it's mainly just the boys getting introspective, sprinkled with an insane amount of dialogue towards the end. Hopefully its coherent, and doesn't become too dull, apologies if if does. Plot is definitely on its way though I swear! 
> 
> Best wishes, hope everyone is keeping safe x

The next morning rises well before either of them is quite ready to greet it. 

"Jesus…you feel like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards or is that just me?" Arthur grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

"Mm, something like that." Charles murmurs, his voice thick, lodged somewhere in his throat. 

Stretching out the stiffness, Arthur rolls languidly on to his side, heaving out a gratified sigh as he does. Propping himself up on his elbow, he surreptitiously regards Charles from across the room, his back currently turned to Arthur, as he combs through his hair. 

Eyes laden, Arthur's gaze drips down, captivated by the muscles of his back. Corded round his shoulder blades, they ripple over his broad frame, hugging every inch of him, interrupted only by the arch of his spine. It slices though, like a knife, like a river passing through a rolling valley, pooling at his hips, delightfully.

Unable to pull his eyes away, a capricious elation simmers away inside him. Nothing like the reckless abandon of last night, just thinking of it makes the tips of Arthur's ears burn. He hasn't acted like that in well…God knows how long. Well if ever, if he's being perfectly honest. 

But, apparently the coals are still hot enough to light a flame. Abashed he averts his eyes, willing himself to snuff the fire before it catches, before Charles notices. 

Stilted, he heaves himself out of bed, the morning chill on his bare skin serving to encourage some thought back into his brain. Gathering his rumpled clothes from the foot of his bed, Arthur silently starts to get dressed. 

As he buckles his belt with leaden fingers, reproach prickles under his skin, squirming in his stomach. He scolds himself, he ought to have better control. 

He can't help but feel it's unbecoming, to be so overtly lustful, to be ruled by it, like some lecherous, peeping Tom. It debases not only himself but also the object of his desire, as though simply by laying eyes on a man he deems handsome, Arthur sullies them both. His own eyes, undeserving of looking upon something so fine and beautiful. 

And Lord knows, Charles is most certainly fine and beautiful, too good for the likes of him, that much goes without saying. Hell, Arthur's scarcely able to believe that this is possible, part of him is still convinced that perhaps last night was all just a dream. A wishful conjuring of his own imagination, desperate to fulfil that longing deep inside, if only for a night. 

But it was real, he has to remind himself of that, and it was mutual. The only hurdle is, following the fervoured passion of last night, well…there's an air of uncertainty left from words unspoken. Arthur, having jumped the gun so spectacularly, left them little room to actually discuss the nature of 'this' and now, here they are, the morning after, both of them walking on eggshells, quite unsure how to proceed. After the axis on which their relationship spins has been so radically altered, it's like Arthur is looking upon the world anew, everything he thought he understood is not quite as it was, shifted ever so slightly, to accommodate for the space that Charles now occupies. It's both exhilarating and disarming in equal measure. 

Caught in an internal debate, as he slips his arms into his sleeves, Arthur pauses. 

"Y'know…I reckon we have a bit of time, wanna get some breakfast before we get back on the road for proper?" 

A weighted pause. "Is this you asking me out on a date Mr. Morgan?" 

A little taken aback, Arthur stumbles over his words, "Well…sure, I mean if you want. Pretty sure I owe you somethin' a little more uh, dignified after pouncing on you like that last night." Scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, he continues, "You didn't mind none did you? I realise I might have got a little over enthusiastic, it's ah…been a while I guess. Don't want to make you uncomfortable or nothing though, so just say if--"

"--Hush you silly man, you're rambling." 

Having crossed the room over the course of Arthur's mindless prattling, Charles now stands before him, entering his space. Still half dressed, Arthur quiets. Breath caught in his throat, he has to resist the insatiable urge to swallow. 

Silently, Charles reaches forward, closing the gap. His fingers hover over Arthur's twitching skin, indecisive. And then, as though it's the most natural thing in the world, he starts buttoning up Arthur's shirt. And like a deer caught in a hunter's sights, Arthur just stands there, helpless. His heart fluttering against his ribs, pounding out a hurried two-step, thumping its tune underneath the soft skin of his neck. All Arthur can do is watch, entrapped by his own quandary, eyes glued resolutely on Charles as he works. 

A deft touch, Charles methodically passes each button through its corresponding hole, a pensive expression drawn across his face as his hands traverse downwards. As though, through this simple act alone he can somehow gather the loose threads of his own thoughts in tandem. Voice low and rough, he speaks, 

"I...it's been a long time for me too. But make no mistake Arthur, this...you." He pauses. Now finished, he takes a moment to brush Arthur's shirt down, before allowing his hand to fall loosely to his side. "I don't know what the future holds, but I find myself wanting to find out, with you." 

He looks up, eyes gentle, vulnerable and Arthur, unable to quite put words to the swell of emotion mounting in his chest, leans in. Interlacing their fingers, he rests his forehead on Charles' and exhales, his breath tickling against Charles' nose, he says, 

"Me too."

In that moment, faced with such brazen candor, Arthur can't help but smile, bashful. With just a few simple words, those looming shadows of shame and doubt, are cast out, scorched from existence. In their place, Arthur can't help but be overcome with a restless excitement, a giddy anticipation for what now lays ahead on this newfound journey of theirs. 

***  
Having left the motel in the rear view, they drive around aimlessly for about half an hour, before they spot a roadside diner that appears to be open. 

Once seated in their booth, they both order. Arthur goes for the full breakfast, complete with all the trimmings, naturally. Whilst Charles opts for the French toast, sensing his stomach is in a somewhat traitorous mood, unsettled by the hard days of travel, the lack of good sleep in between. 

As Charles picks at the syrup soaked squares, sagging somewhat now, having been left to sit for too long, he glances over, Arthur having almost finished. 

"You polished that off quickly. I'm impressed."

Arthur's eyes flick up, catching the amused twitch of Charles' lips. Reciprocating with a crooked smile of his own, almost unfairly ingratiating in its awkward charm, Charles can't help but think. He replies, 

"Ah well…you live on the road for as long as I have, you learn to take your meals where you can get 'em. Don't know when the next one'll come along after all." he states plainly, shrugging, as he sets his plate to one side. 

Charles hms, "I can understand that." He pauses. This is unfamiliar territory for him, small talk. But he pushes that awkwardness aside, genuinely eager to learn more about Arthur. Never having quite possessed the courage to pry before now, he's only ever picked up snippets, either from what Arthur has told him himself, or from the mouths of others. "So, did you always live on the road? Before Dutch and Hosea, I mean." 

Leaning back in his seat, the vinyl creaks as Arthur contemplates Charles' question. It's odd, he can't help but feel a peculiar sense of deja vu, recalling that first proper conversation with Dutch and Hosea, in some other diner miles from here, all those years ago. How he recounted all the trite details of his life then, and how now, here he is, encroaching on twenty years later, about to do the same. 

Although, the circumstances couldn't be any more different he supposes. Back then, he had been alone, exhausted, not to mention just oh so slightly jaded by the casual abandon with which life seemed to hand out misfortune to him. 

Whereas now, it's slowly beginning to feel as though the past sits behind him, like the tide receding. Sure, the waves return, as nature demands, sometimes just gentle reminders, lapping at his feet, embracing him, memories tinted by the lens of fondness and melancholy both. Or sometimes it can be engulfing swells, they drag him under and all Arthur can do is struggle blindly, fighting simply to survive. 

But as of right now, the waters are still. And there he is, stood on the shore, the future stretched out ahead of him, vast and unknowable. Yet it doesn't panic him, the sand beneath his feet holds his weight, resolutely.The prints he leaves are tangible, are real. It makes him feel like the future he longs for may just be attainable, all he has to do is stand steady, live in the present. 

Speaking of, he refocuses on Charles' question. Scratching his cheek pensively, he answers. 

"You could say that. There wasn't really a time we weren't on the road, one way or another. My daddy, well he had a talent for finding trouble, or rather making it, I suppose. So we was always on the move, on the run. My momma, bless her, she tried, begged him to let us stay in one town long enough that I might actually get some kind'a education. But then she got sick, died soon after, I must'a been round five or six? Anyway…after that, there wasn't much left stopping daddy from doing what he pleased, most of which involved either robbing, getting blind drunk or some unfortunate combination of the two."

He pauses, caught momentarily in that wretched web of memories. A scowl tugging on his brow, his jaw set. It's a while before Arthur notices the reassuring warmth pressed down on his clasped hands, slow circles atop his knuckles, that are clenched so tight the bone peaks through, like miniature mountains, capped in white. 

But just that simple gesture is enough to keep him from spiralling. A beacon in the heart of a blizzard, Charles guides him to safety, away from the treacherous territory that is his father. Silently thankful, and not much caring if anyone sees, Arthur withdraws one of his hands, and places it atop Charles', giving it a firm squeeze. Clearing his throat, he continues, 

"Sorry, I uh…well, I was…eighteen when daddy finally got arrested, try'na rob a bank. Got sentenced to life, the best thing he ever did for me I reckon." he grimaces sourly. "But I was on my own, no job, no proper schooling, nothing. So I just drove, left all'a that behind. Dutch and Hosea found me 'bout three years later up in Chicago. By that point I was pretty much at the end of my rope. Money had run dry…it was winter, figure I would 'ave eventually starved to death or froze maybe, I ain't too sure. But then they go an' offer me a hot meal and a paying job, well seemed like a no brainer."

He lets the story tail off then, not much left to tell. In the silence he seeks out distraction. Eventually finding it in the bottom of his coffee cup, downing the last of the dregs so as to avoid any follow up questions. 

But there's none to be had. Naturally, Charles seems to recognise that Arthur has told all he can, at least for now. So, speaking in earnest, he simply says, 

"Thank you for telling me." 

"Nah, well I mean sure." Awkward. 

Internally kicking himself, Arthur regathers his thoughts. Needing to stress the significance this holds for him, he tries again, hands fretting, "I uh, see, it ain't always easy to talk about all'a...that, prolly ain't all that easy to listen to neither, if I didn't end up just boring ya to death. But thanks, for listening, that is." he manages, gruffly. 

Charles offers a small placating smile, acknowledging what Arthur is so ineptly trying to get at with the grace of a Saint. 

Granted his reprieve, Arthur errs. It feels like the right thing, to ask Charles about his life preceding the gang now, in return. If only to demonstrate his own interest, and God knows Arthur is certainly curious, the man is an enigma, has been the entire time they've known each other. But that is a choice Charles has obviously made, a choice that he should respect. And the thing is, it's not Arthur's right to demand such information, he knows that. If he asks now, after his own flagrant over spilling, would Charles feel obliged to share, even despite any kind of reluctance to do so? Arthur dreads the thought. But he would be remiss to deny Charles to speak about these things if he wants to, to be allowed that catharsis, to be heard by someone who cares just as he listened to Arthur. 

Jesus Christ, he needs to stop pussyfooting about and just ask. 

Tentatively, like a stray mutt approaching an outstretched hand, not wanting to overstep his bounds, he speaks gently, "How 'bout you? Sure we picked you up in Chicago, but was you always there?"

There's a weighted pause, and for a moment Arthur's stomach drops as Charles' face closes off, his eyes, staring vacantly into the middle distance. But he does reply, albeit with a tacitum crispness. 

"No. I was initially raised on a reservation, with my mother's people. Similarly, she became sick. Whatever department of the federal government it was back then, they saw fit to reduce our medical funding a few months prior. She passed, never to be afforded the chance of recovery, or even a proper diagnosis to begin with. 

My father, he couldn't bear for us to stay there once she had gone. So that's when we ended up finding our way to Chicago. He struggled, for many years. Slowly becoming a pitiful ghost of the man he once was, losing himself in the bottle inch by inch. 

By the time I was sixteen, I knew there was no place for me there, with him, so I left. I was essentially homeless, but there were a few youth shelters that would still take me, for a time. Once I did age out however, things became...more difficult. 

I'm not proud to say it, but at that time, I still harboured a lot of anger. Anger towards the negligence that cost my mother her life, anger towards my father for becoming so weak in his grief. But, unable to direct my pain towards the people or things that caused it, I instead settled for fighting whoever else I could lay my hands upon. Not much caring if they deserved it, nor if I won or lost in the process. 

That's how I found myself becoming part of an underground boxing ring. Seemed like the natural course of progression really, since it paid me for something I would have been doing anyway. And no one cared who I was, or where I came from, all they cared was that I made them money, which I did and I did well."

Arthur reels as it all comes spilling out. Meticulously rehearsed and yet he suspects this if the first time Charles has spoken any of it aloud. Whilst there's a certain pride to be had, in knowing he trusts him with this information, it makes Arthur's heart ache all the same, to know that up until now, Charles had no-one to confide this in. 

Oblivious to Arthur's introspections, Charles continues, blindly. Like a horse wearing blinkers, he can't look back. He can only continue onwards, fixated on the path ahead. Marching on on stilted legs, determined to see it through. 

"One night, I had been instructed to throw a fight. But for whatever reason, my pride bested me, and it ended up almost costing me my life. It was during the last round. My opponent could see the tide was turning in my favour, time was running out and I was getting cocky. I was unaware, but during our time out, his coach must have slipped him a weapon. Because, once back in the ring, he immediately went for a low blow, jamming something sharp and hard beneath my ribs. 

It was chaos after that. I don't remember much of it. But apparently my coach at least possessed the decency to drop me off at the general hospital, not that he stuck around to see if I actually made it out alive. It probably worked in my favour honestly, they must have all just assumed that I had died. 

Whilst I recovered, bedbound, I realised I was no better than my father. My path to self destruction, simply less pedestrian than his. That was the catalyst for me. I vowed to change, to break the cycle. I would never again let my pain become the end of me. 

But, I was back to square one, as much as I tried, no real job would have me. That's when I came upon Dutch, or rather he came upon me. His offer, well it seemed about as honest a job as I was going to get. So, to borrow your turn of phrase, it seemed like a no brainer to me too." 

"Charles…I'm…"

But as per usual for Arthur, words escape him. Charles' honesty, it's cutting. Laid out so succinctly, as though he was simply reciting a shopping list, it's winding. 

But Arthur knows. He can see the tense of Charles' shoulders, his breath a little too sharp out his nose. Uncharacteristic displays of discomposure, subtle hints at what is really going on behind the stoic mask. 

Still digesting all that's just been said, Arthur can't help the swell of admiration rising in his chest. Not the kind that blindly enraptures, the interminable devotion of some puritan fanatic. Elevating Charles as some golden idol, glorious and untarnished, to be worshipped rather than understood. No, what Arthur feels is something far more profound. To see the broken pieces of Charles, to be shown how they fit together, dutifully repaired over years upon years of hardship, how now they coalesce into something entirely new, reformed, to become the very man sat before him.

To trace the map of his journey in life, mired by pitfalls and traps, in plentiful supply. Ensnaring him more than one along the way and yet, still Charles possessed the strength, the mental fortitude to overcome each obstacle placed in his path, to look that kind of pain in the face, unflinching, and to decide that martyrdom is not the answer to life's troubles. Rather that, living well and being kind, those are the greatest weapons of all. 

Arthur can just add it to the growing list of things about Charles that amaze him. 

When he, himself has never truly grown past his trauma. If anything he feeds the flames, coaxing the memories back into life, whenever they are on the verge of being extinguished. The wounds form knotted scar tissue, that wracks him still with phantom pains, anger, guilt, shame. It's so deeply ingrained into the very fibres of his being, it's about all he can see when he looks upon himself in the mirror, forced to confront the hideous reflection of his father each and every time. He fucking despises how much they look alike, especially now, with Arthur facing the age that dear old Lyle was when he was incarcerated, the resemblance is uncanny. Just another unsolicited, undesired gift that the man has left him. 

And unlike Charles, Arthur has never been able to separate the growths, to cut out the tumours that leach away at his sense of self, his very foundation. It's probably why he's always been so easy to trust he supposes. Too weak willed to carve out his own path, much preferring the wilful ignorance of being led as opposed to the exacting responsibility of playing leader. 

Not that it much matters, even if he did possess the tools to lance his wounds, some twisted part inside him would lament their loss. It's fucked, he knows. It's a vile, symbiotic relationship, some bizzare form of Stockholm syndrome. But it's all he's ever been shown, all he knows, familiar as a worn-in blanket draped over his shoulders, or his father's hat, moulded to the shape of him after so many years.

But he has to believe, maybe just maybe there is a chance for change. A chance to become the kind of man he ought to be, the kind of man he wants to be. 

Ever since….this, ever since him, it seems something akin to hope, has taken root inside Arthur, hesitant as it may still be. The urge to crawl out of his wounds, to let go of that pain, to jump off that cliff, trusting that Charles will be there to catch him in the fall. And Christ, is he falling hard. Arthur wouldn't dare say those fateful words just yet, but he feels them all the same. Love. 

Back in the present, Arthur finds himself pulled towards Charles. His unwavering gaze, discerning as ever, he seems to see right through the haze clouding his mind. Like a wayward planet drawn in by the sun, Arthur is kissed by his warmth, basking in the clear skies, the life-giving light that Charles seems to blaze down upon him. It grants him the courage to speak up, graceless as it might be. 

"I, well, I can't imagine how hard…" he stops, tries again, like an old engine, struggling to turn over. The words that come out, a cluttered jumble, "I mean, despite a'lla that, you still came out," he gestures vaguely, "'bout all I can say is, you're the damn finest man I've ever known. Hell, I feel like the luckiest fool alive for just bein' in the same room as you. Like just by being near you, I might somehow...become better. I mean shit…I ain't exactly sure where I'm goin' with this but--"

Whilst Charles is quite enjoying the show,  
Arthur's words, in their crude sincerity, lightening the weight nestled deep in his chest, he elects it's probably about time to intervene. If only to save the poor man from himself, lest his cheeks get any redder. 

And so, with a gentle nudge under the table with his foot, Charles grabs Arthur's attention. 

"C'mon you old sap, we best get moving."

Flashing an apologetic grin, Arthur snaps to. He fishes out a few bills, tucking them under the sugar and proceeds to follow Charles, out, onto the road.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders if cutting loose has ever even occurred to Arthur. Whether he even sees it as a choice within his grasp. No, he supposes not. After all, the notion that Arthur, with an opinion so low of himself, would even think he deserves to act in self interest is preposterous. 
> 
> A man, who gives to others so selflessly and yet still does not see goodness in himself. It would be funny if it didn't break Charles' heart so.
> 
> ***
> 
> In which, both Charles and Arthur reflect on their relationship with Dutch and Arthur struggles to understand exactly what it means going forward.

They arrive back to the ranch a few, tired days later. Arthur's relieved it's done with, their new stud, settled and stabled. Still though, he mourns their journey's end. Like a fine summer day, it stretched out far longer than he could hope, and yet here they are, stood outside Charles' front porch, preparing to part ways. 

Charles knows it, even before Arthur's lips part. He can see it in the reserved stoop of his posture, the immersion he's found in scuffing his boot on some imperceptible chip in the floorboard. Charles sighs. Part of him had hoped, perhaps Arthur would have stayed. But, like the moon chasing the sun, it's not meant to be, at least not for now. 

His obligations to Dutch, to the others, as always, is unwavering. It's admirable, truly. Arthur's loyalty to the gang, or at least, what's left of it. 

The fierce dedication with which he defends them all, particularly the Marstons and little Jack. Their self appointed guardian, determined to support them, to provide them a kind of life that is safe, that is secure, no matter the cost. Which is exactly what concerns Charles so. That Arthur would be willing to do anything, even at the cost of himself, if it meant the others could lead a peaceful existence. 

It makes his heart clench to think on. The creeping notion that, all this time, Arthur has never had someone stood in his corner, someone to defend his own well-being, someone to question the risks of what he does, a friend. 

He's certain the Marstons appreciate all that Arthur does for them, and yet Charles doubts it's ever crossed their minds to question Dutch, to scrutinise the dangers Arthur faces by running these jobs. Simply grateful to receive what Arthur is so willing to give. 

He could easily be arrested, honestly it's a miracle he hasn't been yet, in Charles' mind. He could be injured, killed even, in some squabble, some mindless shootout. All it would take is just one misplaced step for the wind to turn, for a job to go sour. And what then? Who would come to find him, to tend his wounds or God forbid bring his body back home?

It kindles something akin to anger inside him, fueled by the shame, the knowledge that even he has been complicit, as much as the rest of them. 

By the sheer act of distancing himself, by playing bystander to what he knows in his gut, to be an inevitable collision. Telling himself that it's not his place to interfere, as though that might simply absolve his inaction. Sure, it's not as though Charles is an active member of the gang these days. There's no obligation for him to be involved in their comings and goings, nor is he expected to be. Like the moon, he simply orbits around them, acknowledged, but untouched. At least, that was until now, until Arthur. Drawn in by his gravitational pull, everything has changed, and Charles can no longer just stand by and watch.

It will be no simple task however. All these years of selective indifference, have come with their price. Not that he had much sway within the hierarchy of the gang to begin with, but whatever little he did possess has likely gone with the wind. Not that Charles would care, the notion of such things seems paltry really, man made structures, that amount to very little in the grand scheme of things. To Charles, an unequal distribution of power only serves to stroke the ego of those on top, and to crush those beneath into lasting submission. 

However, his opinion on such things hardly stands when the one man he needs to convince, is the self apportioned king himself, Dutch. The only language he is likely to listen to, is that of power. 

And Charles can't lie, the thought of defying Dutch installs a certain trepidation within him. The fear of mistepping, of falling prey to his beguiling wit, his venomous tongue. To play the game and risk losing everything. His actions potentially causing irreparable damage, destroying Arthur's relationships with the others, with Hosea, the Marstons, perhaps even coming at the cost of Arthur himself, who could very well take offence at Charles sticking his nose in, unwelcomed, uninvited. 

It's unsettling, to be rendered blind, unable to predict exactly how Dutch will react. Charles can't help but still feel trapped in a way. Despite not having interacted with the man, at least directly, for years now, it still feels as though he holds Charles in the palm of his fist, as though with just the slightest twitch of his digits, Charles would be compelled to bow down, to accept his will as law, if only to protect that which he cares about most, or rather who, Arthur. 

But Charles refuses to let history repeat itself, still haunted by the spectres of the past. Back in Chicago, having watched Dutch tread that dreadful path, endangering lives in the name of greed, Charles could no longer be accomplice to it. With Bronte, he was like a snake attempting to devour some enormous wildebeest, in some grotesque pursuit for conquest. Left to his own devices, Charles is certain Dutch would have split himself open on his feast. Killing them both and dooming the gang in the process, if only to prove what? Charles doesn't know. 

So, when it all came to a head, and they miraculously managed to escape, deep into the south, Charles was faced with a choice. Like a man stranded, he could concede defeat by choosing to stay, or risk everything by sailing out onto the open water, in hope of something better. 

At the time, it really had felt like the world had been pulled out from under his feet. Because, whilst his time with the gang was comparatively fleeting, it still had left its mark, hard and true. Provided a security, a comfort that he had never known, luxuries, he quickly found himself an addict to. And to sacrifice all of that, to step back into a life of solitude after tasting the ambrosia of acceptance, or family, knowing he might never find it again…it seemed impossible. 

But he had done it, for better or for worse, he pushed off the shore and drifted away. The freedom of it left him weightless, exalted and yet, undeniably hollowed at the same time. Watching all that he had come to know, recede, becoming a distant speck on his horizon. He knows it was the right choice, but even now, he still finds himself reminiscent of the good days, before it all went to hell, wondering if it could ever have gone differently. 

He wonders if cutting loose has ever even occurred to Arthur. Whether he even sees it as a choice within his grasp. No, he supposes not. After all, the notion that Arthur, with an opinion so low of himself, would even think he deserves to act in self interest is preposterous. 

A man, who gives to others so selflessly and yet still does not see goodness in himself. It would be funny if it didn't break Charles' heart so. 

It's a cruel trap Arthur's caught himself in. Charles should know, he barely escaped from it himself and that was after a paltry year or so in its grip. Whereas, Arthur has been worn down by it for over a decade now. And the thing is, Charles can't say for certain that he'll ever be able to break free of its clutches. But he's determined to support Arthur regardless, to shower him in kindness, to prove to him that he is deserving of it, and in the process hopefully nurture the resolve inside him to break free.

***

Shifting in place, Arthur breaks the silence, feeling the need to explain himself, if only to affirm, unequivocally, his abject reluctance to depart.

"Hey, so there's nowhere else I'd rather be, believe me. But I gotta get back. Work…well, John has already covered enough shifts for me to owe him into next year. An' call it a blind hunch, but I got a feelin' Dutch has a new job brewing, it's been a little too quiet for too long to be anything else I reckon. But uh…I'll call you, alright?"

Smiling softly, guided out of his ruminations by Arthur's rough and tumble cadence, familiar as home, Charles replies, "I'll look forward to it." 

Having said his piece, Arthur wavers. A furtive glance up and down, and he deems the coast to be clear. Leaning in, he plants a light kiss on Charles' lips, lingering in place, savouring it. It's short and sweet, but it carries all the weight of the last few days, the truths passed between them, those first tentative steps taken together. Smiling wistfully, Arthur pulls back, 

"I'll, uh, I'll see you soon, be safe." 

"You too."

***

Having got back home in the early hours of morning, Arthur is greeted by dawn gently announcing herself. And as her only audience, presumably for miles, he feels compelled to bear witness, at least for a moment or two. So, settling down into the tattered deck chair he lets sit out front, he fishes out a cigarette, kicks back and enjoys the view. 

Weary, but contented, Arthur watches the sun roll over the horizon, pale and shimmering, like a freshly minted penny. Shards of light, glance off the looming trees surrounding his trailer, piecing holes through mellow fog, and brush their fingers against Arthur's face, mere hints at the sweltering heat that is sure to come. The sun's confidence, already swelling, as she breaks free of the tree line, her blushing warmth permeating all she touches. 

He ain't a godly man, if there really is any kind of life after this one, he'll surely be spending it in the company not of angels, but instead by rubbing shoulders with those horned little fuckers, with their crimson skin and forked tongues. Armed with pitchforks, finding their eternal delight in jabbing him mercilessly full of holes. 

But moments like this, observing nature's infinite capacity to produce such effortless beauty, spontaneous and true. Now that's the kind of divine providence Arthur can get behind. Far more life affirming than any kind of false promise of salvation or a hooded specter of damnation for that matter. 

Christ, waxing poetic so early into the day clearly doesn't suit him. Checking the time, Arthur eases himself up, prepares to shower and grab a bite before setting off once more. 

***

A few hours later and Arthur now hovers outside the bar. Toeing the line, hindered by some impenetrable barrier, he ponders everything and nothing all at once. 

It's strange, to be feeling hesitation, stood outside somewhere as familiar to him as his own home. But that's the thing, it doesn't feel quite as familiar as it once did. Like someone has moved all the furniture round in his absence, silhouettes carved in dust, the only reminder of how things once stood. Except they haven't. It's Arthur that's changed, it's him second guessing all that he once knew about himself, about his place in this tired little world of his. A world he has unknowingly outgrown, and now as he attempts to step back into it, he is confronted with the unbecoming reality of the matter. This is no longer a world he wants, a world he can no longer accept, in the knowledge of what lays for him on the other side, with Charles. 

Like a caged bird, finally granted his freedom, Arthur has felt the wind kissing his outstretched wings, the endless embrace of the open sky, and the reassuring sprawl of the earth below. A gift that once granted, is almost impossible to relinquish, like the delirious gulps of water, taken by a man parched, it's all Arthur longs for, body and soul. 

And yet, doubt weighs on him. The notion of indulging wants, desires that are his own, and to place those needs above those of the gang, it sits strangely, uncomfortably. Like an ill fitting jacket, it fosters a peculiar sense of displacement, it's vexing to say the very least. All these years, his very sense of self has hinged on that which he does for others, above all else. Without that purpose, that guiding light, who is he really? If not the provider, the guardian for their family? What is he if not loyal? Questions that are without answer. Or perhaps the answer is simply too daunting to acknowledge, to unfathomable for his loutish mind. An unscalable wall, an insurmountable barrier stood between himself and the truth. That without these things, without these people, he is nothing. 

Christ, the old Arthur would have balked at the mere thought of abandoning the gang, and over what, some boyish infatuation no less. He would have possessed the sense to wrestle such idiocy into submission, forcing it under lock and key. Filing it away, under the category, of 'wistful longings, rarely recognised and never to be realised.' 

And yet, fool that he is, Arthur has unlocked that door, allowing whatever is trapped inside to come spilling out. Now, here he stands, contemplating. What exactly, he ain't sure, too nervous to put it to words just yet. As though even in his own mind, Dutch would be there. Like a bird or prey, an impenetrable shadow eclipsing the sun, before plummeting earthwards, talons outstretched, snatching out such thoughts from under him before they even get the chance to develop. 

But now more than ever, Arthur is feeling brave. No longer a cowering critter, welcoming his fate, finding a certain catharsis in the acceptance of the inevitable, a relief to be found in its certainty, as though those terrible hooks already hold his heart in their clutches. No, his heart belongs to someone else now. 

With just a crack of light splintering between those splayed flight feathers, it is enough to stoke a fierce, unquenchable desire in him to break free. Like a spitting mongoose, wholly consumed by its own righteous fury, defending what is now most precious to him, Charles. 

And bizarrely, there's an anger there, a fire raging on his own behalf. Lord knows, he's given everything to Dutch, everything he has, had. And for what, exactly? He has nothing to show for it, nothing to call his own. Thirty fucking six, and after years of pouring out his life on the behalf of the gang all he's been left with is just a few measly cents. Pocket change he can barely make add up. Like he could ever afford the affections of Charles in the first place, invaluable, priceless. But hell, he's willing to try. He feels like he could take on the world, and would gladly do so if it meant just a moment longer spent in Charles' company. 

It's addictive, it's like he never knew there could be something different, he never questioned it because what had he to lose, but now, oh the thought of what he could gain, it's enough to make him do something he will surely regret. 

Fuck, he needs to get a grip.

***

Pushing open the door, and pushing down his unruly thoughts, Arthur enters the threshold. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, eventually he catches sight Abigail sat at the bar, idly sipping away at a glass of water. Again he hesitates, uncharacteristically unsure of himself in her presence, but she must have caught wind of him, because she's already turned round, patting the stool next to her, an open invitation.

Grimacing, attempting to shrug off whatever's overcome him, Arthur sidles up, hoping to pull off an air of casual indifference. 

"Hey Abbie, how you doin'?" 

Smiling warmly into her glass, before glancing up, she replies,

"Well I'm just fine, how about you Arthur, how'd it go?" her gaze locked on him, expectant, encouraging. 

Obtuse, Arthur resists, "I don't know--" 

"--Oh don't give me that Arthur!" she slaps his wrist playfully, voice hushed now, "You know what I'm talking about, with Charles!"

Grumbling, he tucks his chin down, already feeling the soft touch of pink dusting his cheeks. He glances up from under the brim of his hat, half-way hoping Abigail will let it pass, but no such luck. She's practically chomping at the bit, an impish grin parading across her face. 

Sighing laboriously, he humours her. The thing is, as much as he is want to deny it, Arthur can't help but share in her childlike excitement. But, just to be contrary, he scratches his chin, leaning back from the bar in an exaggerated show of indifference, drawing it out, nice and slow like that first rousing pull from a cigarette. Naturally, it doesn't hold. Cheeks round as apples, he can feel the idiotic smile tugging on his lips as he answers, his voice barely registering as audible, 

"Went well, real well." 

Beaming emphatically, she squeals, 

"Oh I'm so happy for you Arthur! What did I tell you? I knew it!" Tentative now, treading lightly, she continues, "So…what happened? did you…y'know?" the insinuation hangs in the air and Arthur, distraught, stamps it out with the fervour of a man possessed, 

"Shit no! Christ, nothin' like that. I uhh…we talked I guess? I…" he cringes internally, "I…we kissed." 

Blushing furiously now, utterly miserable from the sheer embarrassment of it all, he stares resolutely at the countertop before him, eyes fixated on one particularly warped knot in the woodwork. As though with just enough willpower he could convince it to splinter open and swallow him whole.

Arthur's internal turmoil, radiating off him in waves, Abigail gives him a small conciliatory pat, attempting to assuage the damage. 

"Hey now, you don't gotta feel ashamed or nothin', you deserve to be happy Arthur, you deserve love. So don't ever tell yourself otherwise, alright?" 

She speaks with the restoring assurance of a mother, and just like that, Arthur's earlier anxieties are momentarily razed to the ground. Allayed by the surety with which she looks at him, as though through her familiar eyes he is the same man as he has always been, will always be, despite how lost he feels within himself. 

Arthur hums agreeably, basking in the warmth of self indulgence for just a moment. Stupid really, but he can't help himself. They sit in companionable silence for a few beats more, and just as Arthur is bracing to excuse himself, Abigail once again pipes up, 

"You know, the carnival is coming by next weekend, me and John planned on taking the boy and well of course you're more than welcome to join us Arthur, that goes without saying. But...I think it could also be a mighty fine opportunity to ask Charles along, if you felt so inclined, that is." She smiles sweetly, her tone innocent as anything, but blatantly transparent in its intent. And Arthur, can't even muster the spirit to protest, genuinely impressed by her apparently ceaseless well of resourcefulness, he shakes his head, bemused. 

"Is that so?" he replies, dry as old hay. 

"Oh come on Arthur, it'll be fun!" 

Turning it over in his mind, he concedes, "To hell with it, I might just have to take you up on that offer. You ain't been wrong yet and I'd be a fool not to take all the help I can get." 

Basking in her victory, she steps round the bar, facing Arthur directly now, 

"Damn straight. Y'know, you're just lucky I'm so well versed in dealing with ridiculous men, Arthur." sighing with feigned indignation, she chides, "I swear the lot of ya wouldn't know what's good even if it was dangled right in front of your faces like a ripe skunk's ass. So, you're welcome." 

"No doubt." Chuckling wryly, he pushes off, and tips his heat in jest, "Well, I thank you kindly for your service to mankind Miss Roberts, but I best be off." Tapping on the bar in adieu, he departs for the office. 

***

Shutting the door behind him, Arthur momentarily closes his eyes, thankful for the comparative calm of the back room, he allows his mind to settle before taking in his surroundings. His head spinning from their exchange, not unpleasant, just…disorienting. Spotting Hosea, tucked in the corner with the morning paper, Arthur looks about loosely, squinting, before enquiring, 

"Hey you seen Dutch? Figured I should check in, you know, see if he's got any work for me."

"Mm, he's liaising with Trelawney as we speak. I wouldn't worry yourself with it for a few weeks son. My advice, consider yourself on extended vacation in the meantime." flicking his newspaper down, Hosea crisply folds it in half before continuing, " By the way it sounds, this job is going to be quite the endeavour, so better you be fresh as a daisy when the time comes."

"Fair enough, you don't gotta tell me twice." Shifting in place, Arthur loops his thumbs through his belt, quite unsure what else to do. But Hosea fills the silence, gentle, yet assertive. 

"Work talk aside, why don't you take a seat Arthur. I'm sure you can entertain an old man bending your ear for a minute or two." 

He smiles kindly, but his tone declares that there's to be no room for negotiation. As much as it's Arthur's prerogative to worm his way of such heartfelt exchanges whenever they present themselves, it seems today really is just set on prying him open, forcing him to air out all his dirty laundry and Arthur doesn't quite know how he feels about that. 

To expose himself so freely, not once, but twice in the same day, is unheard of. Forced to expressing such fledgling thoughts and wants that have yet to truly take wing. Not having had the time to grow organically, to discover exactly what all of this means. His budding relationship with Charles, the creeping doubts. It's like pruning a rose before it's bloomed, a butterfly with pins stuck in its wings, cut down in its prime. All of it, too new, too muddled, too intangible to even put to words just yet, still contained within the swirling ether of his mind. But, Arthur doesn't want to open up a fissure neither, so as per usual, he folds over, accepts. 

"Ah well…I suppose I can squeeze you into my busy schedule, c'mon then, what's eating at you old man?" Arthur settles himself robustly down in the vacant chair. 

"I just wanted to see how you've been holding up, make sure you're keeping out of trouble. No more fist fights, I can be safe in assuming?" Hosea chastises, no real bite. 

Arthur frowns, debating his answer. Unwieldy, it refuses to reveal itself plainly. It seems, much like his world, his head has been tipped upside down, any kind of coherent thought emptied out into the gutter, jettisoned into the cruel expanse of deep space. 

Faced by Hosea, the one man in his life Arthur would consider something of a father figure, even more so than Dutch and Lyle, well that much goes without saying. Hosea, the only one, aside from Charles, who seems to, for some unfathomable reason, value Arthur as he is, not as a weapon to be unleashed, or a tool to be honed, but simply as a man.

And in kind, Arthur can't help but lean into such unconditional kindness. Like a rabid mutt shown that first tantalising brush of warmth, gentle fingers untangling the matted knots caught in his coat. In Hosea's presence, it's disarmingly easy to forego all that bluster he has so painstakingly cultivated. Stripped of the pretense of being a cruel, unthinking kind of bastard that he habitually falls back on. 

But, that just makes it all the harder. To admit to himself that he would be willing to turn his back on the man that showed him such undying compassion all these years, undeserved as it may very well be.

Because, supposing he really does hang up his hat, and quit running jobs for Dutch, what then? What would Dutch say, do, if Arthur defected? Would Arthur be exiled, like some faithless apostate? Denied the privilege of ever seeing Hosea, John and Abigail, even little Jack again? And is it a sin to admit, even if it did come to that, he would be sorely tempted to choose Charles anyway? 

That is, if Charles will have him. Who is he to say that Charles will even want him, weeks, months, years down the line, when he one day realises Arthur is undoubtedly more trouble than he is worth. 

Fuck. Is he really prepared to give it all up? To forsake all that he knows, to forsake the only family he has, all on the vagery of love, if he dare even call it that. The ambiguous promise of the future. The only certainty, that it is unknown. It's a rock in a hard place. It sits heavy, the stakes so high that even a pin could tip the scales. 

But none of that quite rolls off the tongue, the magnitude of such words would barely fit in his crude mouth, so Arthur settles for a slapdash rendition of the truth, 

"Nah nothing like that. It's been…good Hosea really. I'm happy." quiet settles once more, not uncomfortable, merely contemplative. As always, Hosea seems to recognise that there's more to be had from digging up from under the surface. And as per his uncanny ability to sniff out concealed riches, Hosea strikes gold with naught but a few simple words. 

"Love will do that to a man. Hell, Bessie was a long time ago, before even you joined our merry little band of misfits."

Pausing to gauge Arthur's reaction, Hosea's gaze flicks over, apparently his slack jawed silence is confirmation enough. And so he drives on, seamlessly, 

"But being with her, loving her, losing her, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. She was the smartest choice I ever made and it didn't even feel like a choice at all, seemed just as natural as breathing, as waking up to the sunrise. Love, you gotta hold on to that son, both hands on the reigns. Like your life depends on it."

Arthur, stares. Struck dumb and mute together. He has never so much as mentioned the nature of his relationship with Charles to anyone but Abigail, there's no way Hosea should know, and yet, he does, of course he does. It's as though Hosea has cracked open his head, spilling out his innermost thoughts and desires, a streaming pool of viscera splashed out onto the floorboards. 

Mortified, Arthur doesn't know whether to simply look upon it in horror, or to try and regather the pooled contents of himself. To repackage it as something familiar to the both of them, indifferent, callous, derisive towards most everything and everyone that truly matters, to deflect, to deny at all costs. 

No, they both seem to have outgrown that particular routine. Pinned now, cut in half by Hosea's tacitum frankness, Arthur responds carefully, slowly,

"She...sounds like she was a fine woman. Wish I could'a got the chance to meet her."

"Mm, yes. She would have liked you, y'know? She had an artistic temperament, seeing beauty in the most ordinary things. Not unlike yourself really, as much as you like to pretend there's nothing knocking around between those ears of yours." He smiles fondly. 

"Sure." comes Arthur's stilted reply. Uncertainty still tiptoeing up and down his spine, as though he's been had, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but too scared to admit it, remaining silent under the guise of plausible deniability. Hinging on the imperceptible chance that Hosea doesn't know, but is simply fishing, blind. So naturally, the man goes and shines a spotlight on it. 

"Charles seems a fine man."

Arthur coughs, sharp and unexpected. Even his body, thrown off kilter, bucking maniacally from underneath it's inexperienced rider. Thrown to the ground, the air punched out of him, Arthur needs a moment to regain his wits. Thankfully, the hacking abates, like a weighty cloud temporarily blotting out the sun, his lungs having apparently exhausted themselves. Releasing a ragged sigh, Arthur waves away the vague concern etched on Hosea's brow, 

"I uhh…" he clears his throat, attempting to cut through the fog. "Yes, he is." Not much point in denying it now. Hosea having so adeptly connected the dots. "An' you're right, 'bout love, takes no brains to know it, I uh…'specially when it comes to him." he finishes off gruffly. 

And thankfully, Hosea seems to have taken the open admission of his feelings as satisfaction enough. A blessing, truly. This conversation having dragged far beyond the realm of what is comfortable for Arthur, he doubts he'd have the constitution to bear much more, even under normal circumstances. As it is, he feels peculiarly lightheaded. Be it the frayed edges of his nerves, or his heart still pounding from the impromptu coughing fit, Arthur can't say, but it's left his vision swimming. He feels vaguely nauseous, acutely desperate to step outside and drink in some fresh air.

But he can't deny, despite his discomfort, there's been a certain ablution to this little chat all the same. Even if it has left him feeling scrubbed raw, it's buffered away some of the doubt gnawing at his bones, unearthing the heart of the matter once more. He can't change the truth, nor would he want to, Arthur needs Charles, that much is certain. Whatever happens with the others, with Dutch he'll deal with it as it transpires, in the hope that against all his fears to the contrary, a peaceful truce can be levered. 

"Well, I won't keep you. Just know Arthur, if you're in need of a sympathetic ear, you know where to find me."

Arthur nods woodenly, genuinely appreciative, but still too bewildered to offer much else by ways of a response. Hosea rewards him with a solid pat on the knee, before turning back to his paper.

Unbeknownst, that simple gesture is all it takes, it rocks the boat just so, enough to capsize the entire thing, to wrench loose the tenuous hold Arthur has on his traitorous body. 

Unthinking, compelled by the clamorous lurching in his gut, the monstrous clawing inside his throat, Arthur excuses himself, not much caring if Hosea notices his visible state of distress or not. Lurching upright in a daze, he barrels towards the fire exit, ears ringing. Hunched over, he leans his hands heavily against the outer wall, heaving up whatever has so stolidly lodged itself in his throat. Unsettled, he waits out the storm, wary, but a few minutes later and it has seemingly passed, all remaining suspectly quiet. Grimacing, he wipes his face, stumbling aside from the mess he has made, Arthur unceremoniously drops to the floor, allowing himself a few scant minutes to recover. 

Satisfied that the world is no longer pitching about him, Arthur fishes out his phone, considers just texting Charles, but today's already been one nerve wracking exchange after another. It might be trite to admit it, but all Arthur wants is to hear the smooth baritone of Charles' voice, to sooth the unrest, emotional and physical plaguing him both. 

The line dials for a few moments before picking up, 

"Hey" he breathes, "I uh, it's Arthur."

A pause. Arthur can almost hear the amused smirk playing on the other man's lips. 

"I know, there's this thing you see, caller ID, you may have heard of it?" he teases lightly. 

Arthur smiles, watery, still shaken from, well whatever the hell that just was. "The wonders of technology." he hms. 

"Undoubtedly." a pause. "So uh, is there a reason you called? Not that I don't appreciate it but," 

"Oh uh, right. Well, you see…the uh the carnival is coming to town next weekend, Abigail mentioned it, she'll be taking John and the kid, but I, well, I mean if you wanted, to come along as well, with uh…with me? I mean if you ain't busy or nothin', I--" 

"Yes, I'd like that very much." 

Dazzled by Charles' whip quick response, Arthur's brain scrambles to catch up with his mouth, "Right, I mean great. I, uh, I can pick you up or?" 

"No, it's fine, I'll drive down and pick you up, makes more sense than you trekking out here."

A conspicuous pause as Arthur stifles another eye watering bout of wheezing, turning his head away, clamping it within the crook of his elbow. Pressing the phone back to his ear, Arthur just catches Charles' concerned response, "Hey uh, are you alright? You sound a little…off."

"Oh I…it's nothin', think I'm coming down with something is all, bit of a cough." 

"Well, just take it easy alright? Don't push yourself too hard." Charles replies, gentle, attentive. 

"Hah. You know me, living the life of leisure." Arthur barks darkly, a clumsy attempt at humour. 

A disapproving pause. Charles evidently, is unamused. "Somehow I sincerely doubt that." he states, deadpan. 

"Well, unless you're volunteering to come keep me under house arrest Mr Smith…" 

A warm chuckle is his response, melting into a thick, honeyed consistency, his voice dripping sweet and languid, Charles practically purrs, "Don't tempt me."

Rendered breathless now, for an entirely separate host of reasons, Arthur clears his throat, his own voice coarse as coffee grounds by way of comparison.

"Shit Charles, you gotta stop doin' that." 

"Doing what?" Charles replies, plain as oatmeal. Seemingly oblivious to the havoc he has wrecked. 

"I dunno, that! With your voice!" helplessly exasperated, grasping at thin air as though the words fit to describe the hold Charles has over him might just reveal themselves. Much to Arthur's dismay, they do not. 

Charles laughs once more, it crackles hot and breathy down the line, tickling his ear. Smiling warmly, Arthur holds onto the sound tight, even after it fades to silence. 

Closing his eyes, Arthur sighs, not much wanting to say goodbye, hanging on Charles' every word like a physical life line. But he supposes he should relinquish his grip, at least for now. 

"I uh, well, I should probably leave you to it, I, I'll see you soon." those last words as much as a promise to himself as a statement of fact, a mantra to be repeated between breaths, between now and the time they will be by each other's side once more. 

His voice rich and earnest, like the earth itself, Charles replies, 

"See you soon Arthur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I honestly have no idea how long it's been, but believe it or not I'm still working on this. 
> 
> Not much to say about this chapter, it probably goes without saying at this point, but I'm not the biggest fan of Dutch. Don't get me wrong, he's a great character, just not a great person in my opinion. 
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter should be a little more lighthearted:)
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and see ya in the next one x


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles watches, unapologetically. Totally enraptured by the show Arthur is putting on, specifically for him. His shoulders squared, hips angled, he is the effigy of poise. Exuding an indescribable power, a forged competency, blinding in its radiance. Bathed in neon, he soaks up its glow. It carves out his body in all its rapturous glory, highlighting every dip and curve, illuminating the fine sheen of perspiration glittering off his brow, beading down the exposed v of his chest. 
> 
> Eyes roving, his gaze now settles on the corded muscles wrapped around Arthur's arms, they guide Charles' eyes down towards those rough and capable hands, squeezing the trigger tight. There's something about it that sets him ablaze, all Charles can do is watch, like a penitent sinner, accosted by a vengeful archangel, the vision laid before him, glorious and terrifying all at once. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Charles and Arthur bond some more at the carnival, and John is a little shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. It's been forever.
> 
> Still chipping away at this, in between work and moving house its been pretty manic. 
> 
> Hope everyone is keeping well xx

Arthur checks his phone, 7pm, thereabouts. Charles should be here soon. As per their arrangement, he is to pick up Arthur on the way to the carnival, so they can make their way together. 

And so now Arthur waits, cigarette in hand, stood at the intersection where the unassuming dirt track leading from his home meets with the main road, if it can be called that. Like a dried up river bank, it runs not with water but with contusions, deep fissures that spider across its surface, the effect of baking in hours upon hours of unrelenting heat. Even now, the absence of the sun offers little respite, In the gloaming her presence still lingers, sultry in the air, palpable. 

He checks his phone again, no new messages at least. Arthur's primary concern being that, despite his best efforts to describe the specifics of the location he'd be waiting, Charles would still get turned around, lost amongst the winding back roads, ensnared by the encroaching flora, or else devoured by it. He thumbs his belt buckle anxiously, they should have just met at the bar, would have been far easier--

A faint rumbling jars him from his thoughts, accompanied by two watery beams of light, snaking between the trees, and sure enough, a truck triumphantly pulls round the corner. In the fuzzy light of dusk, Arthur can say with a hesitant certainty, that it's Charles, which is good enough for him he supposes. Squinting, Arthur steps forward, and waves the vehicle down. 

Having pulled up to the verge, the truck idles, and the driver unwinds his window, an invitation. So, taking one last puff of his smoke he flicks out the butt between his thumb and forefinger, the embers skittering across the asphalt as he jogs round to the driver's side. He leans over the window frame casually, the last vestiges of the cigarette, curling languidly from his mouth as he speaks. 

"Didn't realise you were in the habit of picking up strange men off the street Mr Smith." he flicks up his hat, eyes glinting playfully beneath the brim. 

"Only the pretty ones." Charles shoots back, unruffled, unapologetically sincere. Snorting, Arthur turns away, nose scrunching, he shakes his head incredulously.

"Shit Charles, you're one smooth talking bastard, you know that?" 

"I'm aware." he replies serenely, "Now come on you fool, or we'll miss the show."

"Funny, 'cause from where I'm standing, the show's right here." Arthur fires back deftly, a grin slick as oil sliding upon his face. 

A hearty chuckle escapes Charles' lips, bright and loud, accompanied by a grudging blush rising in his cheeks as he attempts to regain his composure. He throws Arthur a withering look, only slightly peeved to have been bested by such a tacky line. And Arthur, letting slip a foolhardy chuckle of his own, silently basks in the untold pleasure of coaxing a bona fide show of humour from his counterpart. Like an uncut gem, Charles' uninhibited laughter is as rare as it is precious, so Arthur has learnt to hold it close whenever it does reveal itself. 

"C'mon, don't look too pleased with yourself, now let's go." Charles speaks, mildy exasperated, as he leans over now, to unlock the passenger's side, swinging the door ajar with a firm shove. Arthur nods and steps round, pulling himself inside. 

Buckling up, Arthur rests his arm on the window frame, enjoying the blustery breeze cycling through the cabin as they pick up speed. It thumps in his ears, buffeting his face, a steady weight. A simple pleasure, not unlike the rhythmic drumbeat of rain in the ephemeral hours of morning, or the idle comfort of gazing at the stars, finding a peaceful acceptance in the knowledge that their existence will span lifetimes beyond his own. 

Glancing over, he notes that Charles has already preemptively scooped the length of his hair beneath the collar of his shirt, although a few strands have found their escape, whipping about erratically, caught in the draft. 

"So you found the spot alright in the end?" he leans over, yelling over the din. 

"Mhm, took a while. You really live out here?" 

"Sure, it's cheap, quiet, don't gotta worry bout no-one botherin' me, 'sides for the gators." he shrugs, cracking a lopsided grin. 

"You don't get lonely?" Charles prompts, genuinely curious. 

"Nah, I've spent long enough in my own company to grow accustomed to it. 'Sides, I'm always kept busy with work, running odd jobs and such. You know how Dutch is, always got his eye on the prize."

Charles nods contemplatively, but remains silent, eyes on the road, his opinion on Dutch, held tight between his lips. 

The rest of the journey passes as such, the occasional tidbit of conversation, but for the most part they just enjoy each other's company, feeling no need to pad the silence with unnecessary clutter. They arrive at around 8pm, chaperoned to the makeshift parking lot by a sour faced attendant. A swampy field, the ground already churned up beyond recognition, courtesy of the carnival's many patrons before them. Arthur steps out, grimacing as his boot sinks staunchly into the muck. Hiking forward, he waits for Charles to catch up and as the distance between them closes, he is finally able to get a good look at the man stood beside him. 

Dressed in a rich burgundy shirt, it pours steeply down his chest like a fine wine, the fabric pooling around his waist, clinging to his hips, tight across his pecs. And if that wasn't enough, it's unbuttoned scandalously low, revealing a frankly obscene display of bared skin. Unjustly disarming in Arthur's opinion, he can barely tear his eyes away, not that he can find much excuse to. 

Undeterred, Charles greets him with an unassuming smile. He gestures with a tilt of his head, and with a sheepish grin Arthur swallows down the bristling apprehension, tucked beneath his ribcage, both excited and nervous for the night ahead. 

And so, together, they amble towards the source of all the commotion. The amusements in all their glory set the skyline ablaze with a luminous ecstasy, thrumming with life and electricity for miles to see. Arthur would be loath to admit it, but secretly, he quite likes the manufactured enjoyment specific to carnivals and amusement parks. The gaudy exaggeration of it all, the dazzling lights, the crockpot melody of various pop songs all bullying for attention, interceded only by the swelling chorus of delighted screams. The adrenaline fuelled cravings for foods laden with sugar, salt, grease and Lord knows what else. Delicious only in the specific locality that is the present moment, vaguely nauseating the rest of the time. 

***

They catch the Marstons hanging just outside the entrance, Jack bouncing on his heels. Arthur gives his hair a playful ruffle, whilst the adults get all the necessary pleasantries out the way, he catches the boy's attention. 

"You excited Jack?" 

"I sure am Arthur!" he chirrups. 

"You ain't scared of none of them big rides?" Arthur asks, disbelieving, making an exaggerated show of it. 

"Nope!" and with a coy little flourish, Jack beckons Arthur closer, whispering in his ear, "But momma is, she only goes on the teacups."

Chuckling lowly, Arthur catches Abigail's bemused smile out the corner of his eye. He whispers back, 

"Well, that's no good now is it? You better make sure to hold onto momma's hand extra tight then, so she don't get scared, think you can do that?" 

"Sure can!" 

"There's a good boy, now c'mon then, I reckon there's a seat on those teacups with you and your momma's names on it." 

And with that, they head in. The group of them drifting leisurely onwards, like a grand old river boat, dawdling down the Mississippi river. Content to follow their ecstatic guide, little Jack, like a wriggling puppy, he tugs on Abigail's arm, shepherding them all along. As they approach one of the stalls, the one where you shoot water through the clown's mouth, it becomes apparent that the kid has his sights set on an oversized plush dog, a vague approximation of a labrador by the looks of it, all fluffy yellow fur and floppy ears. It possesses a dopey charm Arthur thinks, kinda reminds him of Copper in a way, endearingly hairbrained as he was. In all honesty, the plush toy would probably outwit his old mutt easily, at the very least it won't shit and bark everywhere with such reckless abandon. 

Tugging on John's sleeve, Jack pleas silently, eyes like saucers, gazing longingly at the object of his affections, dangling just out of reach. So naturally, much to John's blatant discomfort, Arthur nudges the man forward, nodding towards the prize. 

"Well, looks like you're up Marston, better shoot straight" he quips. Giving John a firm pat on the shoulder, he steps back opening up the floor. And just like that, the compact is entered, John now no longer able to refuse, tentatively reaches for the plastic water gun, as though diving his hand into a pit of snakes, making such a miserable show of it Arthur almost feels bad for pressuring him, almost. 

Two rounds later, the balloon and John are both resoundingly deflated, the latter now starting to sag under the crushing burden of his defeats. And with Jack becoming increasingly antsy with each failed attempt, for fear that his prize will surely be snatched up from under him Arthur figures it's time to intervene, for all of their sakes. With a laden sigh, he theatrically rolls up his sleeves. Throwing Charles a sidelong glance, and a cocky grin, he slides up to the counter. 

Now, whether it's the presence of Charles, or simply the opportunity to get under John's skin presented on a gilded platter, Arthur finds himself swayed by a voracious desire to impress. An insatiable hunger, the all consuming need to be the sole beneficiary of Charles' undivided attention. So he speaks out, glib and unaffected, 

"Aw don't sweat it Johnny boy, you just save such taxing endeavours as aiming in a straight line to those of us that can handle it." 

"Shut up! It's clearly rigged!" John flaps, his voice indignant, buzzing, not unlike a shook up jar of hornets. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. C'mon, I'll play ya for it." Arthur states tartly, slapping a token onto the counter, an open challenge. Gritting his teeth, John accepts. So now, with the both of them paid for and lined up, they take aim and fire. 

Throughout their entire exchange Charles has watched with quiet amusement, that the both of them are behaving like a pair of squabbling teenagers is far more entertaining than any fairground ride could hope to be. Abigail too, watches on, although her expression remains pensive, wavering on the cusp of fraught, undoubtedly envisioning the whole thing dissolving into a fist fight. 

And yet Charles can't bring himself to intrude, lost as he is in Arthur's striking transformation. In that moment, gone is the irreverent indifference, the brassy self-confidence. The mask slides away, like melting butter off a spoon, replaced with a trained focus, tempered steel. A tool of acute precision, his eyes rapt, trained on their target. 

It's no secret that Arthur is handy with a gun. Anyone in the gang would freely admit it, even back at Valentine's. But this is the first time Charles has seen his prowess put to use, overlooking the fact that it's been employed to win at a children's game. 

And Charles watches, unapologetically. Totally enraptured by the show Arthur is putting on, specifically for him. His shoulders squared, hips angled, he is the effigy of poise. Exuding an indescribable power, a forged competency, blinding in its radiance. Bathed in neon, he soaks up its glow. It carves out his body in all its rapturous glory, highlighting every dip and curve, illuminating the fine sheen of perspiration glittering off his brow, beading down the exposed v of his chest. 

Eyes roving, his gaze now settles on the corded muscles wrapped around Arthur's arms, they guide Charles' eyes down towards those rough and capable hands, squeezing the trigger tight. There's something about it that sets him ablaze, all Charles can do is watch, like a penitent sinner, accosted by a vengeful archangel, the vision laid before him, glorious and terrifying all at once. 

Entranced as he is, it's a moment before Abigail's frantic swatting at his arm eventually rouses Charles from his stupor. Turns out her trepidation was not unfounded, the simmering heat between the two men has since boiled over, and now, it threatens to scald, lest he find some way to mitigate the damage. Unthinking, Charles ushers away Abigail and Jack, certain that whatever end this may meet, it should assuredly not be witnessed by the boy. And then, acting purely on instinct, he strides towards Arthur, inserting himself between the two men, physically denying them the sight of one another. 

***

The whole debacle had started innocently enough, with a slight jab, intended only to level the playing field, as Arthur all but decimates John in their match against one another. A few sly glances at first, just enough to catch Arthur's eye, before John, purposefully off hand leans over, carelessly encroaching upon his space. 

"Y'know…for a while there you had us all thinkin' you just got a taste for ranching." he pauses, savouring the way in which Arthur falters, his eyes narrowing shrewdly in response, like an alligator debating if John's skinny ass is worth the effort of devouring. But, willfully ignorant John marches onwards, "Never would'a guessed it was 'cause you got a taste for somethin' or rather…someone else." 

Arthur chokes, John's words a sucker punch straight to his gut. Breath caught in a vice, his face drains. His eyes clouded over, like silt disturbed by an obstinate boot hammering into the water, it takes a drawn moment before Arthur's face settles on any kind of tangible expression. 

Although, once the waters have stilled, to reveal the lurking monster rising from beneath the depths, eyes glowing like pearls, ivory teeth glistening with spittle, it becomes evident that John has bitten off more than he can chew. All snapping jaws, and thrashing fury Arthur lunges, his voice caustic, a blood boiling rage leaching out of him, from every pore. 

"Son of a--" Abigail throws him a pointed 'look', her gaze stern, eyes flicking towards Jack, blissfully innocent, playing in the grass. And shame snares him tight, cutting off his words before they escape, he just manages to save face through gritted teeth, "... gun." 

Snickering, John cracks an incendiary little grin, whilst Arthur, pinned by Abigail's ruthless stare, attempts to level his tumultuous emotions. Biting his tongue, voice tight, he asks, "So what, did Abbie tell you?" 

"Sure, maybe. I mean what does it matter? S' not like you weren't obvious." John smirks. Ostensibly pleased with himself, he is deliberately contrary, offering no real answer, simply reveling in watching the unshakeable Arthur squirm under his thumb. 

And lip curling, Arthur has no rejoinder, no words that can release him from this. Muzzled by his own rampant humiliation, he bitterly submits. Much like a caged cougar, he resorts to prowling the perimeter, a wrathful tension coiled within him, searching to be unleashed. And John, like the idiot he is, sticks his fingers through the bars, "So…you consummate things yet?" 

"Motherfu--" 

"--Arthur!" Abigail wails, eyes stricken, she looks to the man beside her, beseeching, "Charles do something!"

But the tinder's lit. Roaring, an enraged bear, Arthur rips into John, shoving him bodily into the wooden counter. He pulls his arm back, muscles taut, itching to find contact, and for a moment they both freeze, locked in a silent battle of wills. But then Arthur pushes away, visible disgust painting his features, either at himself or John, he's unsure. So, he settles instead on landing some verbal blows, still hungry for blood. 

"Christ…like you can talk, it's a wonder you know where to stick your prick with aim that abysmal! Fuckin', goddamn--" 

"Alright, alright, simmer down! Jesus…is he always this orney Charles, or does he just need a good, y'know…?" With a crude gesture John illustrates his point. But Charles is apparently miles away, only just now resurfacing from whatever stolid mire he found himself lost within, quite unable to grasp the situation unfolding before him. 

And Arthur, vision searing red around the edges, loses himself. Tether snapping, John's incessant needling like spit balls on the back of a bison, he snatches the plastic water gun, ripping it from the cable securing it to the counter. Firing a well placed shot, square into John's face, the gratification worth any repercussions, he barks in laughter, watching the man splutter pathetically before him. 

Basking as he is, in the sweet, sweet triumph of vindication, it takes a moment for his awareness to catch up, for him to sense the eye on his back, the invisible fingers trailing down his spine, setting his skin on edge. Stomach sinking, Arthur turns, immobilised as Charles, stone cold, bridges the distance, his eyes crackle with thunder, his lips pressed into a firm line. Grasping Arthur's arm he pulls him back, with just enough force to snuff any lingering sparks, but apparently he needn't have bothered. John has since turned away, and Arthur, well…Charles can feel the hair raising current still coursing through his body, but in the same moment he yields to Charles' touch, seemingly resigned to his fate. 

"Care to explain yourself?" 

Scowling, Arthur shrugs churlishly. 

"What? I thought I was supposed to be aimin' for the clown." 

Rolling his eyes, Charles lets the boorish remark fall flat. He silently steers Arthur away, deeper into the park. And for what seems an age, neither of them talks. Reluctant to break the silence first, Charles is content to wait as long as it takes, knowing full well that given enough time, Arthur will say his piece. 

In part, he is still angry, or perhaps disappointed would be more apt. But mostly he just needs to know why, from Arthur's own mouth, unhindered by the influence of another's voice. More than anything he needs to know that Arthur is at least remorseful. To know that there was more to this outburst than an anger unleashed without purpose. So Charles waits. 

And Arthur wilts under the weight of it. As always, uncomfortably aware of his own shortcomings. Forced to acknowledge the anger within himself, the blind fury, that rears its ugly head time and time again, never to be tamed, implacable in its appetite. 

It thrives on his insecurity, Arthur knows this, and yet this insight does little to abet the hideous beast inside. If anything, the knowing, just gives it strength. Like opening a can of worms, addressing the self-doubt just causes it to spill out of him, ugly and unwieldy. It lays out the perfect tinder, requiring only the smallest of sparks to ignite. 

And yet, to not confront it, to permis its continued, and bloody rampage is infinitely worse. As if condoning its existence, loosening the reins even an inch, would signify the end, the final nail in the coffin. The conclusion of a life-long journey into becoming a man he doesn't much care for. To submit that he is incapable of change, incapable of becoming, of wanting to become better, that all he can give to this world is unapologetic violence. So as much as it stings, he drags it out, into the light. 

"Shit. I'm sorry Charles. John, well…he has plenty experience in knowing what exactly presses my buttons. It ain't good and it ain't right, but I can just never help myself 'round him." he raises his hands helplessly, a half hearted gesture, signifying what exactly, he doesn't know. 

Sighing, Charles stops in his tracks, hesitancy tugging on his strings, feeling almost as lost as Arthur looks. 

" I just…I don't understand, why give him the satisfaction? What exactly did he say to provoke you so?" he implores. 

Pointedly avoiding eye contact, Arthur fidgets, wrestling within himself to dredge up the words. 

"I…there's always been some battle between us, that's just the way it is, the way it's always been." Aware that he hasn't answered the question, Arthur stumbles on, "But I uh...well 's stupid. I, he was insinuating 'bout me an' you, Abbie must'a let it slip I guess." 

He tails off then, discomfort contorting his features. Eyes flicking up, he searches for any kind of reprise, any kind of concession within Charles' features. He finds none. The man's visage undisturbed, impassive, closing the door on any kind of absolvement. And so Arthur is forced to press on. "Just the way he was talkin' like this, us, is just foolin' around, like it ain't serious. Askin' if we'd 'consummated things yet' like that's all there is it to it, just fuckin'. An' he knows 'bout my past, what I used to do. Now I don't know if he said all'a that with the intent of poking that particular hornets nest, but it sure as shit felt like it." 

Charles frowns, the ire he felt, holds its breath, the stoic veneer he had donned, temporarily discarded. Reading between the lines of Arthur's words, concern creases in his brow. The question balances on the tip of his tongue, but he wavers, unsure if it is an answer he is ready to hear, or even an answer that Arthur is ready to give. So cautiously, he offers an alternative. 

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." he speaks slowly, gaze steady. "Whatever lays in your past is yours alone Arthur, and yours to share if and when you so choose." 

But Arthur shakes his head. Dissatisfied with himself, with his behaviour, he feels compelled to at least provide an explanation, not in the pursuit of any kind of sympathy, he assuredly deserves none. No, simply because in his mind, he owes Charles at least that much. 

"Nah…I mean it's old news. Surprised you didn't find out one way or another, back when we was all still a gang. I swear the whole lotta them were like a plague a' locusts when it came to spreadin' gossip around." 

He smiles wryly, momentarily lost in the bittersweet memories of times gone by. "But…well that's besides the point. It was before Chicago, back when I was too young, stupid and lonely to know any better, I suppose. See, out on the road as long as I was…well, wasn't exactly many legitimate ways of earning a living. So I took what I could get, or rather…uh, who. Selling myself to whatever stranger was willing to pay, and Lord knows there was plenty over the years. Course I ain't done none of that in a long time, not that it changes things really, ain't no unmaking that bed. So uh…there you have it. I, I if it's a problem for you, well...I understand. Won't take no offence. We can go back to whatever we was before, or even less than that if you'd prefer."

The levelled resignation with which he speaks sends a spike through Charles' heart. Once again, Arthur has bared a piece of himself, and seen only the ugliness in it. When all Charles feels in this moment is admiration, gratitude even, that Arthur would entrust him with this information. And yet, he can't help but mourn for the Arthur then, young and alone, forced into a life that no youth should ever bear the misfortune of experiencing. 

He wonders too, reminded of those weeks ago, when Arthur had reacted so poorly to his clumsy insinuation regarding his preferences, whether this is the missing piece of the puzzle, the root of that anxiety and shame. The notion of his own sexuality, so hopelessly entangled with his past, with experiences that Charles doubts netted much, if any enjoyment for Arthur, that he feels compelled to respond in denial, or in this case hostility. Paired with the pervasive, yet misguided standard that sex work is something to be scorned, as though it is some irreparable debassment. 

And it's painful even to permit the thought space in his mind, that Arthur may never have experienced such touch given in kindness, lasting and true. That all he knows of love making has been proffered without love, only lust. 

It all serves to pave the foundation of Charles' understanding on the matter, on Arthur. All his life he has given pieces of himself away, the only currency he's ever known, it's no wonder he sees no inherent value within himself. No wonder that he is the way he is, particularly around Dutch. 

So, as much as Charles is still embittered over Arthur's actions, he knows no good will come from dragging them both through this thornbush any longer. Especially when Arthur is already so set on crucifying himself upon it's barbed hooks. 

No, in this moment, Charles simply longs to reach out, to show Arthur exactly just how much he means, to shower him in affection, to affirm his worth over and over, to imbue it within the very core of his being, until it becomes so fundamentally ingrained as to suffocate even the most malevolent splinters of self-doubt and hatred. 

So, pushing aside his frustrations for now, he steps forward, gently tipping up Arthur's chin, thumb brushing lightly against marred skin, salted earth where his stubble refuses to grow, capturing his eyes with his own, holding them still. 

"You fool." Charles whispers, calm, resolute. 

"Uh, s'cuse me?" Startled from his downtrodden malaise, it is replaced with an incredulous quirk of Arthur's brow, a trembling uncertainty in his gaze.  
But Charles stands firm, unflinching. 

"Why would you think such a thing would bother me? There's no shame in what you did, it is no smear on your character, so why do you judge yourself for it so harshly?" 

"I 'unno, just the way I was raised I guess. Daddy always made it real clear what kinda man he intended to raise, and it certainly weren't no whore." his voice crumbles towards the end, scarcely audible. Charles grimaces, but steps around that last comment, focusing instead on bringing Arthur back into the present. 

"Well, it sounds like he wasn't much of a man at all, so his opinion on such matters is nothing you ought to flagellate yourself over. Your only concern should be becoming the kind of man you want to be, not fulfilling some legacy he laid out for you." 

His words, absolute in their sincerity, slowly permeate the brittle shell Arthur has encased himself within, settling in his bones, seeping through to his marrow, it sits uncomfortable, but not unwelcome.  
The urge to rebuke, to refute for once set down, it's not an outright acceptance, but it's a start. 

"Sure. I uh, thank you Charles." Uneasy, he fusses now, eager to step out of the spotlight, "Shit, tonight was meant to be fun. Can we…can we start over?" 

"Ok, come on then. How about a ride?" Charles suggests gently, hoping that some mindless exhilaration will guide this derailed venture back on track. 

And Arthur nods woodenly, endlessly grateful for Charles' penchant to hand out kindness time and time again, even when he is most undeserving of it. Shoulders relaxing slightly, a tentative excitement creeping upon his face, Arthur looks at Charles now, without words, with transparent adoration. And Charles can't help but smile in kind, relieved to be faced once more by the man he knows, the man he is growing to love. 

Now, scouring his surroundings for a suitable candidate, Arthur gestures to the hulking mass of wrought iron and spinning lights ahead, "how about that one? Looks kinda fun."

Hmming in agreement, Charles follows his lead, and soon enough the both of them are jammed into the ride, like sardines in a tin. 

As they jostle for space, he feels Arthur's thigh surreptitiously press closer, the heat that now passes between them, burnishing. It leaves Charles pondering if this was all part of Arthur's design. He glances over to the man beside him, to find a sloppy, self satisfied grin plastered on his face, a resounding affirmation if there ever was one. 

Impossible man. The speed with which he about-turns is enough to induce whiplash.  
One would be none the wiser that just a moment ago he'd been, pouring out his deepest secrets, bearing his heart in open palms. But, in the same moment Charles welcomes it. Shameless as it may be, he savours this private conversation currently passing between them, like the tensile static of a storm, the air feels heavy with possibilities. All the earlier tribulations of the night, for now, left down on the ground below them. 

And with contact comes the promise of lightning, it leaves Charles shivering in anticipation, yearning for more, to uncover, to explore. To lay his hand upon Arthur's leg, to trace the sinewed muscles beneath the tips of his fingers, to let his hand drift inwards, to grip the soft meat of Arthur's inner thigh, to allow his hand to wander so…tantalisingly close. Voice laden, the distant rumble of thunder behind clouds, Charles' gaze flickers up, subconsciously, he wets his lips. 

"So this is why you chose this ride huh."

"Why…are you suggesting I had ulterior motives Mr. Smith?" Arthur rejoins with all the demure graces of a debutante at her first ball, his southern drawl spilling out, dripping with affected indignation. 

Grinning hopelessly, Charles shoves into his shoulder playfully, rendered speechless. Then, as if one cue, the ride judders to life. Smirking now he challenges, 

"Well would you look at that, I think it's about time to wipe that smug smile off your face."

"Oh Charles, ye of little faith." Arthur rumbles, a mirthful glint in his eye. 

As it turns out, much to Charles' dismay Arthur is true to his word. Hooting and hollering, he has a grand old time, all while Charles, knuckles white, never once loosening his grip on the safety bar, wills the blasted thing to be over almost as soon as its started. By the end Arthur is wheezing like a pair of old bellows, drunk on the high of it, he yells over the blaring music, "What did I tell ya Charles, like a fish in water!" 

When reciprocated only with silence, Arthur then looks over, to find his companion decidedly worse for wear. Whilst Charles is certainly a man of stoicism, this ain't that. No, Arthur recognises this look well enough. His skin ashy and jaw set, Charles looks about two shakes away from hurling his guts all over the metal deck below them. Sobering instantly, Arthur gently squeezes his shoulder, "Aw shit. I'm sorry, c'mon, let's get you outta here. We'll find a quiet spot to rest up, yeah?" 

Nodding stiffly, Charles allows himself to be guided away from the blinking lights, out into the tree line. The dense foliage bracing them somewhat from the obnoxiously cheerful amusements, cajoling, beckoning them to return for another encounter. 

Neither of them much inclined to stand on ceremony, they both drop heavily to the ground. Charles, eyes shuttered, hunched over his knees, purposefully still, riding out the nausea. After a few minutes as such, Arthur clears the silence. "Hey, how you holdin' up?" he enquiries gently. 

"Mm, better I think. I just needed some fresh air." Charles murmurs, his voice low. 

Hming, mostly reassured, Arthur leans back onto the heels of his hands, just quietly taking in his surroundings, whilst Charles continues to settle himself. He absently rubs his chest, frowning slightly. He figures it must just be the lingering effects of the ride. There's a tightness there, like someone has got their hand, firmly pressed down on his breastbone. Every breath he takes feels short, like not enough air is finding its way to his lungs.

A vague, and unsettling discomfort, It's not quite enough to elicit panic, but enough to cause him pause. Clearing his throat, dislodging whatever muck is clogging it, he leans forward, spits it out into the grass. And before he can truly dwell on it, Charles steps forward from the outskirts of his periphery, seeming a little brighter, he offers Arthur a hand up. 

Panting slightly, Arthur lurches unsteadily into Charles' outstretched arms, his surroundings galloping away from him, vision spotting. Arms steady as tree trunks, Charles envelops him, supporting the brunt of Arthur's teetering weight as if it were nothing. 

"Hey, easy there, you ok?" 

Arthur waves him off distractedly, "Sorry, I uh…jus' showing my age, don't worry 'bout it."

"Uhuh…" Charles murmurs, unconvinced. "Well perhaps we should call it a night?"

"Mm, I'm inclined to agree with you there." A pause, "So, I uh, I figured y'know since it's late you're more than welcome to stay at mine. I mean if you want, I--" 

"That's fine by me, thanks." Charles cuts him off, not unkindly, just too fatigued to beat about the bush right now. And Arthur nods, mouth snapping neatly shut, recognising that he's been caught in the trap of his own predictability. Shrugging it off with relative grace he changes tack, 

"Sure. Well, you wanna wait in the truck? An' I'll go let the others know we're making tracks." Arthur gently eases out of Charles' grasp then, brushing himself down with attempted nonchalance, he adjusts his hat, squints off towards the general direction of the fairground. 

"You sure you're gonna be ok?" Charles queries, dubious. 

"Huh? Sure, 'm peachy." Arthur's gaze snaps back briefly, "Just don't go driving off without me, you hear?" and without a second glance, he ambles off, stilted as a newborn buck. 

Disquieted, Charles watches him go, waiting until his silhouette bleeds out, engulfed by the pulsing lights. Then, turning on his heel, he starts walking slowly back to the truck, lost in thought.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps that's the lesson to be had in all of this, if there is one. That a life spent in the company of ghosts might as well be death. To take responsibility for the present moment, to hold it carefully and to treat it as the privilege it surely is, perhaps that is the only way to honor those that can no longer bear witness to all life has to offer. And he can say now, with perhaps more surety than he has ever known, with Charles resting atop his chest, that he wants to live. Or rather to return to life, to reclaim it as his own, to be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, first of all, to anyone who is still reading, thank you for your patience. I've still been writing this on and off most days, but can only really manage snatches between work and everything else.
> 
> But In any case, finally! Here is a new chapter:) 
> 
> I won't lie, part of what took me so long with this one is the smut (spoilers I guess) because I'm a big baby who has never written about such things. I glance over alot of detail to be fair, but hopefully it is still somewhat enjoyable to read. I debated even including a sex scene in this fic at all, but I felt it was an important part of this journey for Arthur, the vulnerability it requires of him and also as a way to heal old woulds with something positive.
> 
> ***
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you to all who have left kudos and such wonderful comments. 
> 
> Best wishes and see you in the next one xx

The journey back to the trailer is a subdued one, not to say the silence shared is strung tight, merely restful. Both Arthur and Charles taking the time to recuperate from the relative excitement of the evening. 

Approaching their destination, they turn onto the dirt track, rumbling up the makeshift driveway. Arthur's humble abode, patiently awaiting them both. As Arthur pulls to a stop the engine idles, much as he does, anxiously fidgeting in the seat of his chair. But eventually, like ripping off a particularly stubborn band aid, Arthur removes the key from its ignition, gesturing lamely ahead. 

"Well, this is it, like I said, ain't much." 

The thing is, after spending so much time in Charles' cabin, Arthur can't help but feel that his own place pales significantly in comparison. It's a strange thing, it's never like he's yearned for anything more, a fine mansion out in the country or some slick penthouse apartment in the city. But now, looking at the place he calls home through the lens of someone else, to see essentially the summation of his life equated to the sorry heap of junk laid out before them…it bites. 

Charles seems to sense his trepidation, he squeezes Arthur's knee, and offers a few words of affirmation, gentle and clear. 

"Hey, you don't have to feel ashamed, ok? Where you live, no matter how it looks, it's yours. You don't have to justify that to anyone. It's your home and that's all that matters." and with a slight smile he adds, "And if it's any consolation, I lived in places far worse before you all picked me up."

Huffing weakly, Arthur lays his hand on top of Charles', just holding it for a moment. 

"Thank you."

***

Now both inside, stood somewhat helplessly side by side, two actors awaiting their cues from an absentee director, it takes a moment more before Arthur finally musters the ability to speak. 

"So uhh, how you wanna play this? I can take the couch if you don't wanna share the bed just yet, it's no fuss." 

With a dry look, Charles cuts in. 

"Arthur. I'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own home. I'm perfectly fine in sharing the bed, but if you'd prefer, then I'll take the couch."

"I uhh…Right. Sure, I mean, bed's fine with me too." shifting awkwardly on the heels of his boots, Arthur's mind scurries for the next step in this little dance he's got himself caught up in. It's not as though he's exactly accustomed to entertaining house guests, nor any of the social graces that are involved with courting a prospective partner. In a daze, he resorts to offering the form of hospitality he is perhaps best acquainted with, drink. "Well, make yourself at home. You want a tipple of anythin'? Got whiskey, think there's a couple of beers in the freezer, or I got coffee, water, if you ain't wanting any of that--" 

"I could go for a beer." Charles replies smoothly, already drifting towards the sofa. 

Nodding mechanically at that, grateful for something to occupy his fidgeting body and mind with, Arthur heads to the kitchen, bustling about, presumably in search of a bottle opener, and Charles takes the opportunity to properly take in his surroundings. After some deliberation, deciding that it has a certain…dated charm. The decor, he doubts, is any particular reflection of Arthur's tastes, but rather inherited, from previous residents or else simply a time gone by. 

About every conceivable surface has been decked in pine cladding, lacquered a hearty orange, the windows draped with lace, stained yellow, saturated from years upon years of cigarette smoke, no doubt.  
Everything surface, every furnishing, working in a combined effort to appear in varying shades of brown. 

He notes also, an odd juxtaposition of objects adorning the space, dusty ornaments, wads of rumpled books, plain faced and leather bound- journals perhaps. They are jammed into stray corners, tucked under furniture, obtuse in their deliberate intent to be hidden from sight. Other books too, equally confounding in their ability to defy his expectations, poetry, art history, subjects that Charles, guiltily, would never have entertained as a source of sustained enjoyment for Arthur. 

Overall, it is…an assault to the eyes. A furnace blast of clutter that to his own untrained eye is intriguing as it is incomprehensible. Each item holding untold significance to its keeper, or perhaps none at all, simply accumulations from a life lived, inconsequential tat that has, for whatever inexplicable reason, found sanctuary in between these four walls. A jumbled patchwork, not unlike the man who inhabits the space Charles thinks fondly. 

Eyes drifting further, whilst Arthur is still seemingly diving head first into the utensil drawer, Charles finds a few more touches that pique his interest. Namely an inset bookshelf tucked away, sparsely decorated with a collection of photographs. Scrutinising then, he finds one to be of a man, the resemblance to Arthur, uncanny. Barring the marked difference in facial hair, this man sporting a thick mustache, his father? Then a woman, plain faced, she possesses an earnest kind of charm and perhaps he's reaching, but Charles sees something of Arthur in her, a touch of familiarity in her lips, perhaps, the set of her chin, her jaw. His mother, he decides. But then another photo tucked behind the first two, strikes Charles as unusual. What looks to be Arthur's father, except he's clean-cut, younger, and he's in the company of a woman, not the woman in the other photograph. She is darker, petite and perched atop her knee is a young boy, similarly dark, not Arthur? 

It's a piece to the puzzle that no matter which way Charles turns it, doesn't fit. Eyes straining, the solution seems plain to see and yet it slips through his fingers, evasive. Perhaps the woman and child are of another relation to Arthur, an aunt, a cousin? But even that seems a reach. Charles relents, without context he is lost, like water through a sieve, any ponderings of his have no purchase. Without a key, any notions as to what this photo means, shall for now, remain utterly lost on him. 

Startled, Charles feels a gentle tapping on his shoulder, and as though caught in the act, he guiltily afixes his gaze elsewhere, pointedly ignoring the little alter to bygone memories. He mutely accepts the offering held out to him, and Arthur, drops heavily to the sofa beside him, legs stretching out, with a contented hm. 

They drink companionably, and Charles debates just asking outright about the picture, but something holds him back, what he cannot say, but he trusts his instincts on the matter and remains silent. And so, It's Arthur that ends up cutting through the lull. 

"You have fun tonight?" 

"Mm, I did. I can't remember the last time I went to a carnival if I'm being perfectly honest. I enjoyed myself." 

"Yeah, me too." Arthur rumbles, cracking a crooked smile as he presses his lips loosely to the mouth of the bottle, taking a steady pull. Somehow making even the act of taking a drink something evocative, enthralling. Eyes glued, Charles steels himself, spilling the words on his mind before he can tuck tail and convince himself otherwise. 

"You looked good tonight by the way." he supplies innocently enough, but in the same moment waiting keenly for Arthur's reaction. 

"Oh?" eyes narrowed, Arthur pauses from his sipping, curious. So Charles elaborates. 

"Letting loose, it suits you. Notwithstanding…well you know, with John." 

Arthur frowns at that, absently thumbing the lip of his bottle. 

"Yeah…I'm sorry 'bout that, an' sorry you had to step in, it was unbecoming." 

"It's ok. Well, it's not. But I'm grateful you told me why you reacted as you did. It takes bravery to confront those pieces of ourselves we'd rather keep hidden, let alone to share them with another." Charles supplies earnestly. 

"Yeah…still though, s'no excuse. Shouldn't have lost my temper like that, not in front of everyone, 'specially not in front of Jack." he admonishes, voice acerbic. 

And for a moment, silence squares itself, wedging its presence between the two of them as Charles considers his answer. He can't absolve Arthur of his actions, nor would he want to. But he feels the need to clarify his view, if only to dispel the self loathing that encumbers Arthur so, to prevent him from clipping back his own feathers in self flagellation and in the process chaining himself with the burden of never being able to take flight, to grow. 

"Hey, sometimes our emotions get the best of us. So long as we're able to recognise that within ourselves and look to change our behaviours for the better, then it's not something to unduly punish yourself over." He squeezes Arthur's thigh, steadfast, reassuring. 

"Hm. Maybe." Arthur mumbles into his bottle, unconvinced. Troubled, Charles looks to change the subject. 

"You know, watching you win that prize for Jack. I liked it." returning once more to his earlier point of conversation. 

Gulping, Arthur clears his throat, "You did huh? What about it?" he prompts, cautiously. Toeing the edge, like a diver suspended on the precipice of a treacherous drop. 

"You…I've never seen you shoot before. It was something else. Intimidating, yet…I found I couldn't stop myself from watching." He looks to Arthur then, eyes hungry, searching, hoping, for what he can't quite say, trying to unpick the inscrutable expression lodged there. And Arthur sets down the empty bottle, clearly entertaining some thought trapped the back of his mind. And then, surprising them both he states evenly. 

"I wanted you to watch." looking to Charles, directly now, jaw set, flush creeping from his cheeks down his neck, hands fisted in his jeans. 

Remaining silent, temperately still, Charles waits, so as to not spook Arthur from whatever decision is clearly afflicting him. And mercifully, rewarded for his patience, Charles watches astutely as Arthur leans over, the sofa dipping with the shift of weight. Then, momentarily held in place, he lingers on the threshold, silently asking permission, and Charles, mouth dry, offers a short nod in response. 

It's different from the first time. Less urgent to reach its conclusion, no longer a question rushing to find its answer. Both of them, now on the same page. Arthur's lips, travel slowly, searching, exploring. The huff of his breath on Charles' cheeks, the coarseness of his lips, the rasp of his stubble, it's a burgeoning kind of heat, smouldering coals as opposed to a raging fire. 

And Charles bathes in it, savouring the warmth that rushes through him, like that first step into a hot bath, initially scalding, fiercely overstimulating, but with just a little push he is able to break through that veiled barrier. Honeying, Charles finds that the further he sinks into it, the more he relinquishes control, the sweeter it becomes. And Arthur, held by the surety with which Charles responds to his touch, presses in, his hands, reverent upon Charles' face, fingers wrapping around the nape of his neck, guiding them both, one and together. Eyes closed, lashes fluttering, Arthur pulls back. Lips rouged, voice thick, he asks only. 

"Bedroom?" the unspoken connotation, hanging between them. And Charles nods, mute. Gaze flicking down to Arthur's chest unbidden, it doesn't go unnoticed. Swallowing, Arthur silently rises, and leads them both to their destination. 

Anticipation quivers in the air, shimmering almost, much as heat does, bore down by the blazing sun and crawling through the air like molasses. Closing the door, Charles turns to face the man stood before him. Arthur, watching with a kind of knotted trepidation, a trapped animal only just coming to the realization that he has set foot willingly, into a cage. 

Stepping closer, Charles makes a pointed effort of telegraphing his movements, and carefully, he reaches for Arthur's hand, rubbing slow, placid circles into the centre of his palm. Hoping the modest sensory stimulation will untangle some of the bundled nerves within him. Studying Arthur's face as he does, coaxing him gently back into the present, like cupping an ailing flame and breathing life back into it. 

"I, are you sure you want this? If you're not--" But Arthur interjects in assurance, resting his idle hand atop of Charles' own. 

"I, yeah, I am. I just…'s different than…well, before, I mean when I was…I mean I wasn't really there, it just happened, and then it was over y'know? Didn't really feel nothin' for it one way or another. In fact most folks preferred it that way, liked me quiet…submissive. An' the only other time wasn't exactly…well we was drunk and young, not sure either of us really wanted it." 

He drifts for a moment, caught in the swell of old memories, but he resurfaces with relative ease, not quite swallowed entirely by the riptide." But I...I mean with you, I swear I've never wanted anythin', anyone more, and that's what's terrifying. 'Cause I want to give you all that I got, but I want…I mean I want you to--and I don't know how to be…" he tumbles over his words, painfully aware of his own blazing ineptitude, as though stringing together a coherent sentence is some herculean endeavour, a monumental wall he must scale with his bare hands. 

But Charles, gracious as always, lets it pass without comment. Instead, electing to speak a different kind of language, plain and simple. He presses the flats of his palms against the thick of Arthur's chest, silently ushering him to sit, at the foot of the bed. 

A quizzical look crosses Arthur's face then, bright and unsure, for a moment making him appear achingly young. A fleeting apparition of years gone by, of a life only half-grown. Arthur, neither a boy nor a man, instead caught somewhere between hay and grass. It sends a yearning though Charles, As if only he could step into the immaliable wastes of the past, to reshape Arthur's youth into something kinder, gentler. 

But no such thing is possible. And in truth, entertaining such ruminations only serves to invalidate, to discount the Arthur of this moment, the vibrant, inquisitive soul.  
The roaring fire, the homely hearth, the smouldering coals. The man sat before him who is capable of so much more than what his fragile self belief permits of him. The man he loves for all that he is, for all that he was and for what he will be. For that is the only word now capable of encompassing the swell of affections engulfing him whole, he loves Arthur. 

And Arthur, watching plaintively, a porcelain flower unfurling itself, shifts on to the heels of his palms, opening himself up.  
Heart beat stuttering in his chest as Charles bridges the gap, leaning over him, his body eclipsing the world, absolute and flawless. With a minute gesture, he directs Arthur to part his legs, as he settles himself into Arthur's lap, adjusting himself just so. Legs wrapped loosely around his hips, arms draped over his shoulders, he allows his thumb to absently glide over Arthur's clavicle, smiling as he leans shamelessly into the touch, head tipped forward he hms lowly, utterly contented, like a soppy house cat. 

As Charles shifts his weight, Arthur's eyelids snap open in response, lucidity spinning to the surface. Looking at Charles with a reverence that sends a blistering heat coursing through him, tip to toe, it leaves even the tips of his ears singed. 

Clearing his throat, Charles breaks the silence. 

"This ok? Tell me if you'd like me to stop." 

"Please, don't." Arthur chokes out, his fists bunching themselves around Charles' hips. Possessive and desperate, as though clinging to a dream, that at any moment could spill out from between his fingers. 

Smiling, indulging just oh so slightly in Arthur's frenetic disposition, Charles trails his fingers down the slopes of his chest, delighting in the minute tremors his touch elicits. The restless bucking of his hips, the hitching of his breath. Then, reaching for the hem of Arthur's shirt, Charles tugs it upwards, whipping it over Arthur's shoulders, allowing it to pool unceremoniously to the floor. 

Now, with no barrier, he observes Arthur's body. Noting the spatter of freckles dusting his shoulders, trailing up his forearms. Spectral fault lines from the burnishing kiss of sunlight. The rest of him, much paler by comparison, the splayed fingers of his ribs, the slight swell of his stomach. Like liquid moonlight poured into a well, Charles hungers to reach out and touch, to sink his fingers into the water's depths, and to observe the reaction, like rippling mercury, playing across its surface. 

"You're incredible, you know that right?" he murmurs. Fingers grazing against Arthur's arm idly. A genuine observation that for a moment, drills out that stubborn pit within Arthur, gruff and earthy as coffee grounds, he scoffs. 

"Says the fellar who literally has me twisted 'round his little finger. Hell, you're so magnificent, we ain't even got to nothing yet and I can barely string two words together. Can…can only imagine what anything more than just lookin' at you would do to me."

"You needn't imagine." Charles supplies. 

At which, the mirthful glint fades within Arthur, snuffed out and turned over to once again reveal that trembling vulnerability. Still held by the fear that at any moment, this all could be snatched out from under him, a beautiful fantasy, never meant to be realised, never meant to be tarnished by his unpolished hand. 

But for perhaps once, Arthur is able to stifle that devious little voice perpetually chattering away in the back of his mind. To overthrow its cruel empire, seeded in doubt and self reproach and replace it with the reigning truth. The ineffable reality that Charles has shown him, time and time again- love. What it is and what it could be. What it is to give it and what it is to receive it in return. 

And so, possessed with tentative determination, Arthur reaches out, gesturing loosely with his hand, as always silently asking, before then sinking his hand into the dense blanket of Charles' hair, each individual strand parting like reeds to accommodate Arthur's roving fingers. He then cups Charles' cheek, fervently gentle and Charles, drawn like a moth to a flame, leans in, parting his lips, breath dancing on the tip of his tongue. 

Their lips brush, a mere impression of a kiss, but it is enough. Radiant, it melts through the barrier of uncertainty, paving the way forward. A crack in the dam, it lays siege to the surging flood trapped behind. 

No longer able to withstand such a languid pace, Charles clumsily removes his own shirt, flinging it into the corner, and then twisting back, tightening his legs, he draws Arthur greedily closer, eliciting a small involuntary gasp from him. 

And then, without thought, he tips them both forward, scooping his legs out from their current position, retreating so as not to pin himself under Arthur's weight. And now, caught snugly in place, boxing Arthur in, Charles smiles into their next kiss, lips curling as he wraps them boldly around Arthur's, both of them, chasing each other's breath, the taste of him, heavy on Charles' tongue. 

And finally, pulling back for air, Charles leans back casually on his haunches, gut stirring at the way in which Arthur squirms from beneath him, his thighs clenching and unclenching, pinned under his ass. An uneven lope that yearns to break free of his crushing weight and yet welcomes its resistance all the same. 

Chest heaving, Arthur sighs heavily, stilling himself in capitulation. Gaze languid as he observes Charles removing the final vestiges of clothing, jeans and underwear callously tossed aside, an act Arthur hastily mimics, before settling himself back into place. 

Now both entirely nude, Arthur unabashedly stares at Charles, devout in his silence, adoring. His presence, infallible. His body, as sure of itself as the wind through trees, as sure as the earth holding the sky. A looming force, carved stone and bundled twine. He is both refined, postured as marble as he is uncontrived, natural and abundant as clay. 

Stricken by how unassailably lucky he is to even be looking upon such unbridled, earthly beauty, Arthur barely registers the creaking bed springs, the bridging of space between them as Charles rejoins, knelt before him. 

"You have everything we need?" Charles' words hovering in the air. 

"Mm, oh yeah, in the drawer to your right there." taking a moment to catch on, Arthur blinks distracted, before indicating towards the bed stand, to their side. 

Hming in acknowledgement, Charles leans over, torso tensing as he reaches for the drawer's contents and, for lack of more pious phrashing, sets the stage. Now, hovering in anticipation, his fingers flit over the soft surface of Arthur's splayed inner thighs, feather light and electrifying. Like the burn of hot wax dripping onto bared flesh, Arthur's muscles jolt instinctively in reply. 

"You ready?"

Nodding, Arthur watchfully spreads his legs, bracing himself. 

And so, with a generous quantity of the viscous liquid spread over his fingers, he eases in, working dutifully to coax Arthur open. The initial breach, squeezing a tight gasp from Arthur's lips. Breath hitching, brow contorting as he grows accustomed to the loaded pressure, Arthur whines, his entire body itching with desire. 

"You ok?" Charles prompts. To which Arthur proffers a kind of braying moan, the serrated scrape of a dull knife on metal. He supposes that's to suffice as a yes. 

Smirking, he continues, basking in the ambrosial pleasure of self-satisfaction, to watch Arthur come undone by the touch of his own hand. And eventually, with his preparations made, Charles attends to himself, stroking his own length before sliding it in, breath coming hard and sharp through his teeth as he does. 

Groaning, Arthur locks his ankles around the small of his back, nestled in the divet just above his ass, squeezing them together, closer still. Sending a lick of pronged lightning jabbing up Charles' spine. Gasping, vying for release, he snatches chaste kisses wherever he can find them, nipping at Arthur's jawline, nuzzling into his bared neck, skin sizzling at the contact, at Arthur's clumsy advances, his leaden fingers skating over Charles' ribs, cupping his breast, intent on blindly mapping every inch of his body all at once. 

Grunting, Charles pressed closer still, his breath heaving, torrid. Roaring in Arthur's ear, it marries with the resounding rhythm of his thrusts, like the splitting crash of seafoam against rock. And caught in the swell together, they become the same. Layered melodies of the same sonorous hymn, a mutual prayer to one another, an offering of flesh and blood, made in unceasing deference. 

Gasping, Arthur's lips part, an unintelligible jumble of words cascading out his mouth, eyes flitting open. 

"Fu--Charles, I--"

Head tipping back, Arthur surrenders. The supple arch of a stringed bow, he is pulled taught, gut snagged and wrenched out. The sheer intensity of it, boiling his bones, melting his marrow and galvanising his blood. He is made anew, over and over, until the surge breaks and, 

"I--I'm gonna…"

Grunting in exertion, Charles not far behind, he rolls his hips once, twice more, a swelling crescendo to an impassioned symphony, before he too, is collapsing in a limp heap. Pulling back, breath ragged, Charles lands himself heavily to Arthur's side, stomach quivering from the stilted breath raking through his lungs, hair mussed, skin flushed. And Arthur, caught in a daze, any coherent thought spilling out from between his ears in a soupy puddle, just lays. Body heavy as an anvil and lighter than air. 

Charles, pragmatic, finds a towel from the bathroom, and once they are both cleaned up, Arthur shifts over, raising his arm so as to allow Charles the opportunity to gratefully slot himself into the offered space. Fitted together, Arthur lazily trawls his fingers up and down Charles' arm, as they both drift along the velveteen sprawl of post coital bliss. Lifting his head woodenly, Charles manages to catch Arthur's eye, 

"It was good?" 

"Shit Charles, you have to ask?" he quips, but then, as though catching himself, berating his loose lips for making light of something so profound, Arhur sobers. Speaking with an unadorned clarity. 

"Yes, it was good. More than that, more than I ever could'a hoped, more than I des--." but he cuts himself short, not wanting to sour the moment with such wanton admonishments. Sighing, he just reaffirms, "it was good."

A small smile, and Charles nestles his head back into the crook of his shoulder. Smiling to himself, Arthur allows himself to just bathe in the moment, to appreciate the weight of Charles resting on his chest, dozing. Humming lowley with life, steady, warm and endlessly reassuring.

Body weighted, His mind untethers, wandering down dusty corridors, to crack open locked doors concealing old truths.  
Gazing into the mirror or the past, and recognising something gentle and new making its home there. 

For after everything, he can't help but feel a small tug of pride, or perhaps it is purely just the blessing of comfort. To know that a part of himself he had considered to be in an eternal state of disrepair, had in fact only needed to be exposed in order to flourish. 

All these years, denying himself of such intimacies, measuring himself by the nameless encounters of his youth as something defiled, unworthy. And otherwise accosted by the spectre of Eliza, and what his carelessness had cost them both. But then, the dead care little for guilt, and it does little good for the living to wallow in such things either. 

Perhaps that's the lesson to be had in all of this, if there is one. That a life spent in the company of ghosts might as well be death. To take responsibility for the present moment, to hold it carefully and to treat it as the privilege it surely is, perhaps that is the only way to honor those that can no longer bear witness to all life has to offer. And he can say now, with perhaps more surety than he has ever known, with Charles resting atop his chest, that he wants to live. Or rather to return to life, to reclaim it as his own, to be free. 

These are the thoughts that cling to him, as Arthur joins Charles, tugged into the open plains of unconsciousness.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wakes early, even for him. The soft edges of consciousness drawing themselves in, scooped into focus by a gentle hand. Like a pearl, clear and pellucid, cradled within the pillowy confines of an oyster. 
> 
> The first sensation to register in the vacant chambers of his mind is that of a dull weight, a heavy and sturdy warmth draped across his midriff. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he rolls his head over, and sure enough, Charles. Still very much here, with him, face slack, breath steady and true, quietly humming with life. Smiling, Arthur flops his head back down, more than willing to indulge such a fine moment for just a little while longer. Hell, he would happily remain as such for an eternity, if it meant he got to feel this fucking contented with the start of each and every day.

Arthur wakes early, even for him. The soft edges of consciousness drawing themselves in, scooped into focus by a gentle hand. Like a pearl, clear and pellucid, cradled within the pillowy confines of an oyster. 

The first sensation to register in the vacant chambers of his mind is that of a dull weight, a heavy and sturdy warmth draped across his midriff. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he rolls his head over, and sure enough, Charles. Still very much here, with him, face slack, breath steady and true, quietly humming with life. Smiling, Arthur flops his head back down, more than willing to indulge such a fine moment for just a little while longer. Hell, he would happily remain as such for an eternity, if it meant he got to feel this fucking contented with the start of each and every day. And truly, It's been far too long since he's woken to feeling so calm, so steady. To not immediately be accosted by his own demons, or else just the ever present responsibilities of life, or more specifically, the responsibility of providing a life for everyone else.

Surely it would be asking too much to wish that every morning could be like this, but doesn't mean he can't enjoy it in the here and now he supposes. And so he does. At least until the untimely and frankly rude calling of nature demands otherwise. Sighing, Arthur twists awkwardly, managing to pry himself loose from the steadfast grip of his unconscious companion, who much to his relief, barely stirs in the process. The only hitch, a fleeting tightening of his brow, a discontented grunt, before Charles' face once again relaxes, easing back to the clement embrace of a peaceful slumber. 

Now, gingerly manoeuvring himself to the edge of the bed, Arthur plants his feet on the floor, flexing his toes amongst the rough fibres of the rug. Then, straightening his back, he stretches, dutifully ironing out all the creases, all the aches and pains creaking in his limbs. An activity that has become habitual with the ticking of the clock, the tightening embrace of age, he tries not to dwell on it too much.

But today, well a different kind of discomfort announces itself amongst the familiar crowd, one he recognises well enough, despite it having been longer since he last felt it than he would care to admit. The dull ache in his guts, that vague sensation of having been hollowed, his insides scooped out to then be haphazardly replaced. But this particular sensation at least kindles some warmth within him, for what it represents, the sweet memories of last night, still thick and heavy in his mind and in his limbs.

Shaking himself from such thoughts, Arthur stands, now clocking also, the telltale signs of dehydration. His throat lined in sandpaper, the pounding behind his eyes. Not that they had drunk much last night, in fact it had been relatively tame by Arthur's standards, so to wake, hungover nonetheless, bruises his ego just a touch. But then, the drink does catch up on him quicker than it used to, that much he has been forced to admit. And indeed, the effects for which he is currently suffering are pretty damned irrefutable at this point. The persistent throb nestled between his temples, the lingering shadow of fevered sweat, grubby and pungent, still clinging to him. 

So first and foremost he showers, shaves. Tidies himself up before setting to do the same with his surroundings, discarding the detritus from last night, tackling that glowering stack of dishes he's been decisively ignoring for the past few days. 

A half hour later and relatively satisfied with his efforts, Arthur takes a brief respite, now leaning on the doorframe, cradling a hot mug of coffee and quietly relishing in the punchy temperament of the morning air, drinking it in with each breath. Against his better judgement he also indulges in a brisk smoke, not quite able to muster the resolve to finish it before it starts to tickle his lungs, but close enough. Washing down the coarseness lodged in his throat with the tepid dregs, he shakes out the mug onto the decking, before turning back in, setting himself to the task of knocking up some kind of breakfast. 

***

That's how Charles finds him. Outfitted in a pair of sweat shorts and a faded tee, poking cautiously at a spitting pan laden with eggs and bacon, a look of intense concentration drawn upon his face. 

Ridiculously endearing as it is, Charles watches for a beat more before silently approaching from behind, loosely wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist, chin tucked neatly into the crook of his shoulder, and smiling into his ear. An act reciprocated by a brief jolt of surprise, an involuntary tensing of his body, it takes a moment for Arthur to relax into his touch, but he does. Eventually snaking his free hand around Charles' giving him a firm squeeze. 

"Morning." Arthur smiles lazily, flipping an egg before craning his neck, twisting to catch a snatched glimpse of Charles from behind him. Not failing to notice the lack of clothing adorning the man's upper half, a sight he is not even remotely prepared for. 

Spluttering, Arthur redirects his attention back to the pan, as though staring down its contents might somehow extinguish the fire now raging within him, or at the very least conceal the rising flush in his cheeks. But Charles, apparently with the intent of stoking the flames, moulds himself even more snugly to Arthur's body. Delightfully distracting as it is, Arthur can't help but chuckle despite himself. 

"Shit, if you're tryna get me back into bed all you have to do is ask."

"Well consider this me asking, officially." Charles rejoinders deftly, breath tickling against his ear. And with a forced calm, not of the mind to accidently set fire to himself this morning, Arthur turns down the heat, setting the pan aside to face Charles directly now. 

"Is that so? And who's gonna keep an eye on the eggs huh?" he teases lightly, wagging his spatula for additional effect, if only in an attempt to glaze over the heady thump, the gushing of his blood, threatening to burst from his every pore. Little good it does him. 

"Damn the eggs. And damn the bacon too." Charles growls, impatient. His arms firm on either side, boxing him in. 

Swallowing dryly, Arthur licks his lips, eyes darting, heart quivering, a bird trapped within a bell jar. And then, like glass, the moment is broken. Shattered by the trilling ringtone of Arthur's mobile, the little brick of plastic rumbling away, it merrily skitters up and down the worktop. Paralysed, Arthur's eyes flit to the screen. 

"Shit, it's Dutch. Gimme a moment."

Gently prying himself from out of Charles' now limp embrace, Arthur excuses himself to the front door, phone clamped between his ear and shoulder as he jimmies the lock, the screen door swinging ajar behind him. 

And Charles, now left to his own devices, struggles to recompose himself. Arthur's exit, not unlike a cold splash of water to the face, he is instantly sobered, and left to feel a veritable fool in its aftermath. Suitably abashed, Charles makes his way to the bedroom, silently redressing himself, to return to a still empty kitchen. Sighing to no one, he dishes up their meals, pours a fresh cup of coffee each, and waits. 

But all the while, worry eats at him, like a battalion of woodworms, boring their way under his skin, feasting on his innards. And so, against every instinct to the contrary Charles pads silently to the front door, in pursuit of any small scraps of conversation that may be accidentally tossed his way. And sure enough, he manages to grasp a few snippets. 

"I got plans Dutch, me and Charles--" 

A weighted pause. 

"I ain't, that ain't fair Dutch, you know I'd --ok, fine. And it's got to be today?" 

"Yeah, ok. I'll be there." is Arthur's tight reply. 

Frowning Charles hangs back, ears now burning. Overcome by an itching sense of displacement, a squirming discomfort, for being the wedge that is cracking open this growing ravine between Dutch and Arthur. Not for lack of wanting Arthur to distance himself from Dutch and his particularly duplicitous brand of family, of loyalty. But more so because Charles still can't say with certainty that this is what Arthur wants. He still can't say that Arthur isn't just acting on the notion that this is a choice he has been forced upon, a corner that he has been backed into, unable to see a way out that doesn't involve sacrificing one side of his life in order to preserve the other. 

And whilst, in a squalid corner of his heart, Charles would want Arthur to pick him, he could never voice such words. Particularly to a man, who would likely bow down to such a request, whether he so much wanted to or not. No, it would be unimaginably cruel, and to the both of them no less. To allow their relationship to continue as such, in the knowledge that Arthur had unwillingly handed himself over to Charles, and at the cost of cutting all ties with those that he holds dear, those that he has gone to such ceaseless lengths to protect, would be unbearable, unsustainable. 

And then…silence. Violently jared from his ruminations, Charles realises that Arthur has long since stopped talking, the phone line cut. Immobilised, he feels already caught in the act, guilt sinking a hole in his stomach for eavesdropping, for invading Arthur's privacy at the behest of his own self interest. 

Silently cursing himself, Charles strains his ears, hoping blindly that whatever Arthur is still doing out there will grant him enough time to orchestrate some kind of escape. Breath stoppered, lodged like a fist in his throat, Charles picks up on a scraping beat, pacing. He recognises it as Arthur dragging his heels, as he is want to do, with that ludicrous, charming, bowlegged swagger of his. 

Relief inching its way down his spine, Charles lets loose a shaky exhale, now left to wonder absently how long exactly he's been at it. Apparently agitated enough by his conversation with Dutch that such measures were deemed necessary in order to cool off. 

But Charles shakes himself from such idle ponderings, possessed by the rising urgency to escape, excruciatingly aware that with each moment passing, his window of time is dwindling. And indeed, almost as though fate has sought to prove his point, Charles hears Arthur stop on the threshold, the door now creaking ajar. 

Blood pounding, he freezes in place, barely having made it a foot from the entrance before the quiet is punctuated by honestly, what Charles would least expect. 

For the door retreats back on itself, as a few hampered wheezes, punch weakly through the air. Benign enough, that is before they rapidly devolve into a wracking bout of coughing. And Arthur, any attempt to curb his state of discomposure seemingly abandoned, stumbles away momentarily. Whilst fraught, Charles attends silently in horror, itching to intervene, to do…something. But just as suddenly the fit announced itself, it clears. And with Arthur's footsteps now approaching once more, there is nothing left for Charles to do but flight to his place, seating himself at the table as though he had never left. 

And sure enough, with mere seconds to spare, Arthur makes his re-entry, looking about as wan and dejected as their two meals. Left as they have been to spoil, grease pooling, congealing to form a thick and vaguely nauseating slurry. Whilst Charles, still reeling, heart thundering, keeps his gaze downcast, bracing for a blow he surely knows is already coming. 

"So that was Dutch, but 'course you already knew that. I, uh, he needs me to come in. Needs to discuss the new job with me." 

Nodding mutely, chewing ferociously at the inside of his cheek, Charles risks a glance up, for fear of what he can't quite place. But it's still just Arthur stood across the room, as he is, a little frayed around the edges, but still exuding that sturdy warmth, that dependable rough hewn familiarity of a well loved homestead, passed down from age to age. 

Whatever that outburst was, sits heavy in the air between them for lack of acknowledgement. Arthur, apparently of the mind to act as though it never even happened and Charles…well, as desperate as he is to address it, finds he cannot. Too much of a coward to drag it into the light, to permit it the facility of becoming a reality. So instead, he asks what he already knows. 

"Your meeting with Dutch, it's today?" 

"Hm, yeah. I tried to change it but, well…" An unpalatable expression crosses Arthur's face then, bunched up into a dour scowl, throat working as though he is physically trying to wrangle his next words out from under his tongue. " 'cording to Dutch…well, me galavanting off with you has postponed it long enough. And thing is, Dutch he ain't a particularly patient man at the best of times, and this clearly ain't the best. I'm sorry."

Anger spikes within Charles at that. That after weeks of deliberate disinterest in the happenings of Arthur's life, Dutch would call now, and with the intent to berate, to admonish Arthur for attempting to even have one. For God's sakes, even Hosea had called once or twice during Arthur's prolonged absences spent at the ranch, it else just away from the bar, always sending his best to the both of them, happy in the knowledge that Arthur was happy. 

But of course no such luck with Dutch, because, as it is becoming ever more apparent, at least in Charles' eyes, his every interaction with Arthur seems to be seeded only in power, in profit, and not of a mutual kind either. For what does Arthur truly receive from their arrangement, asides from a paltry cut of his own earnings and a lifetime of illicit behaviour, tied like a chain around his neck until the end of his days.

And apparently this deal they've cut still holds, maybe not as strong as it once did, the ties that bind Arthur and Dutch together strained as they are these days, it holds nevertheless. For all Dutch need do is give a firm tug and Arthur will come to heel, for he still, in the end, is a loyal dog. And can Charles even begrudge Arthur for that, for acting as his nature demands? 

In any case, perhaps it was conceited of him to believe, to truly consider that whatever it is between himself and Arthur, the burgeoning hope for a life shared could ever supersede his relationship with Dutch. That Arthur would choose Charles over duty, over loyalty. That despite his obvious reluctance, the notion that he could just say no, could simply refuse Dutch and the world would not come crashing down as a result is apparently so unfathomable to Arthur, that he would never even consider it an option.

It makes Charles fear, deep down, perhaps Arthur really is incapable of change. Not through any fault of his own, but from having spent an entire lifetime being told that his worth amounts only to what others can receive from him. And with all said and done, perhaps that is all he will ever see in himself, despite what Charles will always have to say to the contrary. 

It breaks his heart to admit, to entertain such a notion, but the thing is, Charles can't say that he himself is strong enough to weather such a storm. To give himself to a man that ultimately is so encumbered by the past, by his own self recrimination that he is incapable of choosing the future. For what hope does a relationship have that is not founded on love? Love not only for one another but also love for themselves? 

Torn, for a moment Charles hesitates. All his life he's never been one to make demands. That's not to say he doesn't make his opinion known, to offer approval and condemnation in either hand when it comes down to it. But he's never possessed the propensity for leadership, for dictating the choices that others should make. So, for the most part, when he is confronted with a wall, a barrier so deeply entrenched that to fight it would be to destroy it and likely himself in the process, his usual course of action is to simply turn away. To cut ties and quietly accept it as the way of things. It's what he did with the gang, and what part of him even now, is considering, as much as it turns his stomach to admit. That the easiest way out would be just to leave, to invest no more of himself than he already has, because surely it is better to tuck tail with at least a few slivers of himself left intact, rather than lose it all to what he fears is a lost cause. 

But he can't. Not yet. He still has so much to give to this, to them. And he can only hope that Arthur is the same. So he decides simply to ask, to offer Arthur the chance to voice his own opinion and in the same moment to, God willing, assuage his own swelling doubts before they overcome him. And so, with as much caution as one would exercise when disturbing a sleeping bear, Charles speaks, 

"Hey, have you ever considered that perhaps this lifestyle Dutch has you all leading is no longer…viable?" 

Frowning, Arthur pauses, clearly weighing his words out.

"What do you mean by that?" Guarded, but not entirely closed off. A small success in Charles' eyes, and so he proceeds, albeit with the greatest of care. Well, as much care as is possible in such an instance, treading on coals as he is. 

"Why don't you sit?" he asks, innocuously gesturing to the vacant seat. 

Nodding woodenly, Arthur traipses over, setting himself down and waiting patiently for Charles to expound, which he does. "I just…is it really necessary for you to be doing this anymore? The gang isn't exactly what it once was, there's no longer twenty upwards hungry mouths to feed. Is the risk really worth it? Rather than seeking out the kind of unwanted attention that got us all in so much trouble in the first place, surely it would be to everyone's benefit to just take a step back?" 

Contemplative, Arthur chews on his answer. 

"It ain't that easy though. Might not be necessary, but what choice do I…do we have? You think any one of us has the necessary life skills to land an honest job? Hell I don't even know what that means, don't know the first thing about any of it. This is all we got by my thinking, same for John and Abigail. Hosea too, with his health he ain't fit to work no more and he ain't got any kind of savings to fall back on neither. So it all comes down to me an Dutch, like it always has. He finds the work and it's up to me to bring it in, just the way it goes. They all depend on me Charles. I'd be good as throwing them out onto the street if I just walked away and called it quits."

And he speaks it with such resigned conviction, with the fatigue of the disenfranchised, Charles struggles to know exactly how to dispel it, to offer a constructive resolution to a man who has seemingly already come to terms with the devil's deal he has fallen prey to. But nevertheless, he tries. 

"Ok, but have you actually talked to Hosea or the Marstons about any of this? You think you're alone but I'm sure they have their own doubts, their own qualms, just as you do. And they care for you Arthur, as much as you do them."

"Sure...I mean I can talk to 'em. Don't know what it'll solve though. There ain't no changing Dutch or his methods." he replies bullishly.

"Well his methods are exactly the problem Arthur." Charles insists, "He makes you think there isn't a choice, that you're beholden entirely unto him, despite the fact that he is forcing you to risk everything. Surely you must see that? And just how much of the money that you bring in ends up lining his pockets, hm? From what you've told me, each job yields far more than Dutch should even know what to do with." that last point, a hammered nail, hits a nerve. 

"Christ Charles, you can't be talkin' like that!" hissing, Arthur leans in, as though even entertaining such a notion could conjure the aforementioned man from thin air, an apparition come to bear down his insatiable wrath upon them both. And indeed, as though trying to patch a sinking ship, Arthur scrambles for a response substantial enough to seal the crack, to mitigate the damage, but even then it falls decidedly flat. "Look, Dutch, he's always done us right. Without him none of us, yourself included, would have gotten a second chance when we needed it most. We all owe him for that." 

But Charles persists, pressing his fingers on the fissures, forcing them open. 

"Perhaps. But by that logic when does it end, when exactly would you be absolved of this debt to him? Look, you don't owe Dutch your whole life Arthur, debts or no, you've already repaid what you owe him, tenfold." 

And now, backed into a corner, unable to deny the truth in his words, Arthur squirms in discomfort. Still unable to openly speak ill of Dutch, but not exactly refuting the point either. 

"Shit Charles…I, I don't know about all'a this. It's not that I enjoy the work, to the contrary if I could pack up my bags, leave it all behind no consequences, I would, in a heartbeat, and if it meant I got to spend the rest of my life with you, then I would truly consider myself the luckiest man alive."

An admission that for a beat, makes Charles' heart swell, irregardless of the words that are to come next. "But there will be consequences Charles, lasting ones. And I gotta…well I gotta figure out what I'm getting myself, getting the others into first. You're right I do need to talk to them. But till then, better to tread lightly. I'll do this job--"

Frowning, Charles starts, but Arthur cuts him off. "No, no, hear me out. I'll do it, not for Dutch, but for us. To buy us the time we need to figure out some kinda plan that doesn't get us all turned out into the gutter. And then…well then we can take it from there I imagine."

Deflating, Arthur then turns his attention down to his food, prodding at it mulishly, he takes a bite before pushing the plate aside in revulsion. "Shit, sorry. Suddenly ain't got much appetite." scrubbing his eyes, he tries and fails to regain his composure. "Ah fuck, I'm sorry, gimme a moment." 

Hands braced on the table, Arthur closes his eyes. Takes one ragged breath after the next until the whole ordeal of facing a lifetime of regrets, of facing a future with no direction doesn't seem quite as indomitable, doesn't wrangle the very breath from his lungs. 

And Charles, watching on, swallowing his own grief at seeing Arthur struggle so visibly, leans over, whispers,

"Hey, it's ok, don't apologise." Setting his own plate aside he reaches across the table, holding Arthur's hand steady. "Thank you for talking about this with me. I know Dutch is something of a mentor to you, a father even. Nothing can erase that, nor the fond memories, the good times that have been shared between the both of you. But you can't let this sense of obligation to him forever rule you."

"I know. S'just hard I guess. I know Hosea will always have my back, but still hurts to know that I'm to be a disappointment to two fathers in my life, Dutch and Lyle both." Arthur clarifies bitterly, "and all as a result of my own foolishness, for having followed them blind for far too many years, for being too weak to just fucking fight back." 

"Well they deserve each other, for you are far more than either one deserves to even call son." Charles speaks with unapologetic clarity, "And you cannot blame yourself Arthur, you are neither weak nor foolish. To endure as you have done all these years, in itself is an act of immense strength." 

And firm now, determined to dispel any lingering doubt on the matter, Charles makes sure to catch Arthur's eye before continuing on, "Listen, you cannot blame yourself for what has been done to you, because it is not your fault Arthur, that is the truth of it. And those that love you, truly value you as you should be valued, would never attempt to convince you otherwise, understand?" 

"Yeah...I guess. Shit, how does talking with you always end like this?" he sniffles, a watery smile struggling to find purchase on his face. 

"...Like this?" Charles prompts. 

"With me 'bout ready to bawl my eyes out from being so fuckin' emotionally constipated my entire life. And there's you, cool as a cucumber, with all the answers I need to hear. I ain't complainin', just feels like you see right through me, like no-one ever has."

"Well you're welcome, I think." Charles smiles, to which Arthur responds with a weary chuckle. Drained as he appears Charles offers a gentle touch, nudging the conversation from out of such troubled waters, "Hey, don't worry about today, about us, alright? I'll be here waiting for you after all this business is done and we can pick up where we left off, with me dragging you back into bed." Charles only half jests, attempting to lighten the mood. 

"Hah, don't tempt me. But no, I can't ask you to do that Charles, go home. I'll call you when it's done, I'm gonna be gone all day most likely, and prolly won't be much good as company by the end of it anyway."

Charles opens his mouth to contest, but Arthur waves his objections away. "Honestly, it's better like that darlin'. I'd rather give today a rain check, make it up to you proper some other time. Feelin' a bit under the weather besides. I uh...I mean you prolly heard me hacking away out there, ain't nothin' pretty an' I don't want you catching it neither." he nods, convincing himself as much as anybody. 

And Charles, caught between elation and unease, falters. Heart squeezing at the term of endearment, but simultaneously stopping at the open admission, the truth that he himself had been too weak to admit moments ago. So eager to push it away, to let those wretched sounds that had possessed Arthur's body dull within the confines of his mind. Until time, coupled with his own bullheaded obstinance could neutralise the memory of it, could render it a half truth, or else just a concerning but singular occurrence. As opposed to the multitude of horrors such an afflicting cough could be concealing just beneath the surface. Well now, honed to a keen point, it is very much a reality, one that now demands his attention. 

And indeed put to words, the reality of it, that Arthur is sick, presents itself eagerly. Like uncovering a beloved and revered painting, only to reveal an unschooled forgery in its place. Similar only on the surface, the overall impression is the same, and yet lacking any of the vigour, the impassioned spontaneity of the original. He sees it In the pallor of his skin, the fevered sweat on his brow. His eyes stubbornly rimmed by bruise like smudges. 

Looking back to last night, Charles then realises Arthur probably looked just the same as he does now, he had just been unable to see it, bathed as they both were in the lively illuminations of the carnival all night long and otherwise distracted by certain….activities. 

Charles then delves further back, the last time he'd seen Arthur had been perhaps a week or two prior, he'd seemed in fit enough health then, hadn't he? He racks his memory, overturning every stone in search of the truth and as it is want to do, doubt starts to reconstruct reality, sowing the seeds within his mind that no, Arthur had looked a little pale even then, fatigued, he had just thought nothing of it. Guilt, now burning an acrid hole in his stomach, for not having noticed before, Charles urges, perhaps a little more forcibly than necessary,

"Arthur, how long have you felt like this? Have you been to see anyone?" 

"I dunno, few months I guess." he shrugs, noncommittally. 

"A few months? And you haven't thought to go to a doctor?" Charles' blatant disbelief, evident in his tone. 

"Oh hush, don't worry yourself none, s'just a cold Charles. It'll pass." Arthur speaks plainly, unfazed. 

"Arthur, whatever that was, it did not sound like just a cold. Look, you shouldn't be driving alone, we'll go to see Dutch together, tell him you can't do the job." His tone creeping towards desperation, brittle as eggshells, threatening to crack. 

No longer able to delude himself, those memories of his mother now rise obstinately to the surface. How for her, it too had started as just as a cold, a pervasive but not entirely concerning ailment, and then how her decline had been so expeditious, so rapacious in its appetite, that whatever it was had devoured her from the inside out before anyone could truly grasp what it even was. 

Frantic now, caught by the inasugable fear that perhaps he is already too late, that some microscopic assailant is internally dismantling Arthur as they speak, Charles spins out of control. His habitually unaffected demeanour, the meticulously constructed facade he has come to depend on now fails him. That mask he carved as a young man, an act of protection from a world that would besmirch him for being anything but acceptant, benign in the face of countless injustices perpetuated by very people who now demand his complicit silence. A guise built on the knowledge that as a man of his stature, a man of his skin colour, that any display of volatility, of unbridled emotion would label him as a savage, unthinking brute at best, and at worst would end with a bullet in his chest. 

All his life it has been a dependable defence, one he dons more often than he likely should for the hollow comfort it brings, to know that his innermost thoughts and feelings are locked securely out of harm's reach, to all those but himself. And yet now, chained by the spectre of the past, the potential it bears to now come full circle, the hands of fate hungrily awaiting to snatch away yet another person Charles holds dear, it all becomes too much. That face he wears, that mask which he has so dutifully tended all these years now skids across the floor, bearing the truth of himself, wretched and ungainly. 

And recognising the wildness in Charles' eyes, the choking panic in its eagerness to consume him, Arthur snaps into action, speaking lowly and calm. 

"Hey, easy Charles, easy." he soothes, "Look, I'll talk to Dutch alright, see what he says. An' I'll call you straight after ok? If time permits, I'll pack a bag and come over to you, stay as long as I can, before hitting the road, how's that sound?" 

Those verdant blue-green eyes of his steady and true, loosening the noose but a notch, yet just enough for rational thought to flood back into those treacherous corners of his mind, to snuff the spark before it truly catches. And now, processing all that Arthur has just said, Charles slowly returns to himself, still shaken, but at least no longer on the verge of becoming entirely inconsolable. 

"...Ok. But just promise me that if I feel too unwell, you'll tell me. I'll come get you, or--" his voice quavers, to which Arthur replies with firm and irrefutable assurance. 

"Of course, I promise."

Nodding, Charles swallows. Mind racing, he now struggles to clarify such an untimely outburst to the man beside him that currently sits as firm as bedrock, his attentive silence as daunting as it is reassuring. 

"I just…I fear for you Arthur. This life, it's dangerous, unpredictable as it is. Each day can hide any number of terrible realities. Callous, nonsensical calamities that could result in injury or death without reason or meaning. You and I should both know this better than most, with my mother, and your own, the both of them amongst countless others to lose their lives in such a way." Looking at Arthur, hard now, he continues, "And then there's you, striding right into the lion's den as though it is nothing. Your work for Dutch, and now this…this with your health, you act as though your life is but a poker chip, a cheap piece of plastic meant to be gambled away in some high stakes game without thought to the consequences." 

And indeed it seems to have its intended effect, for Arthur momentarily tunnels in on himself, lost in thought. Considering whether it would indeed be prudent to voice those particular thoughts he used to have, how there had been a time when he used to tell himself just that, to tell himself it wouldn't much matter if he lived or died. That surely it was a price he ought to pay, a price he would accept even, with unfailing gratitude if it meant he could indulge that selfish little desire to be granted peace. Peace from the pain, the guilt and all else that came with living in a world where Eliza and Issac, his only son, no longer existed. 

But Arthur remains silent, judging it not to be the time. To speak of such things in this moment he feels would only serve to detract, to disregard Charles' pain in favour of elevating his own. And what use would it be to wallow in his own self pity anyway, when Arthur can say with at least some conviction that he no longer thinks in such a way, or at least that he has made some kind of peace with it all, with being alive. Well, in the way at least that he likely would never act on such destructive inclinations any more. 

"Charles…I'm sorry. I should'a thought…I mean please don't think I mean any disrespect to your ma, to the memories you hold of her, or the loss you both ended up suffering by her dyin'. S'just a hard notion to reconcile, living the way I have for so long, that my life might be…well y'know, worth somethin', but I'm trying, believe me." 

Arthur pauses then, aware of his voice stretching thin, squeezed flat from under the duress of admitting such a thing and his flinching lungs besides. But, clearing his head and throat he presses on. "And it may seem odd, but I wanna thank you for the part you've had in that. Whether you know it or not, you've given me reason to change, to realise that behaving so frivolous with my own life is not only an act of injustice to those who ain't living no more, but also to everyone else that's still here, yourself and...even myself included. An' the last thing I want is to cause you worry, or make you think that I would ever just brush off your concerns because I, well…you matter to me Charles, so your worry is my worry, an' I just, forgive me for ramblin', but I just want you to know I'm taking it serious is all."

Charles glances up, eyes warm. The last vestiges of that gnawing anxiety stamped down, at least for now. Of course it will return, when or why he cannot say, but like a hardy little weed all it needs is but a crack to justify its existence, a single point of weakness that it can dutifully pry open and infest with its presence. Shaking such thoughts from his mind he refocuses on Arthur, as he now seems to be rounding things off. "Look, I doubt I'm making a lick of sense, but to cut to it, if whatever I got ain't gone after this job I'll go to the doctors, scouts promise." nodding resolutely, as though he really is sealing a debt of honor. 

Smiling minutely, Charles breathes out a hushed thank you. A sliver of humour now bouncing under his tongue, alike to a spear of light breaking through a blockade of leaden clouds, sanguine in its pronouncement to the world, he teases lightly, 

"Can't quite imagine you as a boy scout."

Scoffing, Arthur tosses over a look of mild offence before biting, "Hey, now I'll have you know I'm quite insulted Mr Smith, that you would so quickly dismiss--."

"--Wait, you actually were one?" Charles buts in, incredulous. All his earlier scepticism thrown to the wind in place of the now gnawing desire to be told to the contrary. 

"Lord no! You think they would'a accepted a shit stirring, thieving little reprobate like me?" shaking his head, Arthur chuckles, "Now, if they had awarded badges on the grounds of bunking school and being an overall pestilence to the local community I would'a fit right in. But seems they don't look too kindly on such things, at least last I heard."

"Shame." Charles snickers, "You almost had me convinced there."

"Well their loss I suppose, or gain, depending on how you look at it." Arthur grins sheepishly. 

"Loss for sure." 

"If you say so."

Silent now, as the conversation wanes, Arthur checks his watch, releasing a laden sigh as he does, before pushing off the counter top, gathering both their plates and leaving them to stand by the sink. 

"Best be off soon, don't wanna keep Dutch waiting."

Sighing, Charles can't help but agree, loathe as he is to do so. So he stands himself and crosses over to Arthur's side. 

"Hey, just…take it easy alright? Whatever happens, call me afterwards and we'll figure it out together, ok?" 

"Yeah, together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, hope you all are well xxx
> 
> Not too much happens here, but its starting to come to a head, next chapter will be with Dutch, so some sparks will fly. 
> 
> I hope I'm not being too gratuitous with Arthur's coughing, because there'll be plenty more where that came from. I'm of the mind that he's likely been downplaying for a good month or more, and so it shall be announcing itself with increasing frequency, particularly during times when he his emotionally/physically agitated.
> 
> I know in canon his ordeal with the O'driscolls is widely considered to kick start his symptoms, along with guarma etc. But in this instance and from my own reading this TB just needed time and well, I'm also of the mind that even in this modern ish setting Arthur is unfortunately not the best at looking after himself. That he likely doesn't make time in the day to eat a decent meal, subsisting largely in coffee and cigarettes.
> 
> Also not strictly relevant but I headcannon that in this time frame Arthur is a complete technophobe and so his phone is likely some taped together piece of shit from the 90s.
> 
> Anyway, hopefully be back soon and keep well folks xx


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to place the exact source of it all, why exactly he no longer believes in this…in Dutch. It's as though after all these years, some kind of spell has finally been lifted. Bestowed with clear eyes for the first time, he no longer sees a mentor in Dutch, a savoir. No, Charles has shown what true salvation might be, that is if such a thing exists, and if only he could just allow himself to reach for it.
> 
> Because with Charles, it's effortless. Arthur trusts him with the entirety of himself, unconditionally. And as brilliant and terrifying as that notion surely is, that he could willingly give his whole self to another person, Arthur finds himself wanting it, more than anything.

Beset by a formless loss in Charles' absence, Arthur stands in his bedroom, unable to quite discern what comes next. As much as he dreads to admit, it seems best to just face the music, to face Dutch, and himself in some kinda way, he supposes. If he really is intent on sticking to his word. Now on his own, it suddenly doesn't seem quite as simple as it had but moments ago. 

Sighing, Arthur lays out a pair of jeans, a shirt, and gets dressed, that at least is simple. Well at least it should be. Frowning, his belt pulled in, it chinches a notch tighter than is habitual. Best to keep on eye on that. Lest he have Hosea on his back about not taking care of himself again. Smiling slightly at the thought of the old man, his beratements are always met with exasperated dismissal from Arthur, but the effort is appreciated nonetheless. And even now, just the reminiscence of him, well it helps ease the edging fear of this imperceptible illness, whatever it is. 

In any case, now is not the time. Shaking loose such thoughts, Arthur does one last cursory check around the room, glancing in the mirror before heading through the front door, shrugging on his jacket as he goes. 

***

Having arrived at his destination mere moments ago, Arthur now checks himself in the rear view mirror, anxious. It does little to abet his nerves. Grumbling, he distractedly smoothes his hands down the legs of his pants before snatching the keys out the ignition and heading out, into the street. 

Jogging up the steps to their humble establishment, Arthur ends up loitering in the entranceway, fiddling with his belt buckle. As he searches the room, his eyes gravitate to Dutch almost immediately, as he is, in his signature scarlet backed waistcoat, leaning over the bar and chatting to John about something or other. And with both of them still unawares, Arthur announces his presence with a light rap on the door frame, offering a weak wave in the two men's direction. 

"Hey Dutch, John."

And Dutch, transforming at the sight of him, spreads his arms and strolls over, leaving John to the wayside. 

"Arthur! Just the man I've been looking for, come here, we have work to discuss!" his booming voice, filling the room, as though their stage is some grandiose concert hall, as opposed to a murky little watering hole. It makes Arthur shrink in on himself, as if a reluctant participant dragged backstage by a crooked vaudeville hook. 

But oblivious, Dutch strides over, a jovial conductor, a minister to a congregation of one. Steering Arthur firmly by the small of his back, ushering him into the office before he can slip a word in edgeways. And John, lingering behind the bar with a washrag in hand throws a sideways look, vaguely apologetic, as Arthur passses. A kind of mutual acknowledgement passing between them, neither man exactly comfortable with this kind of work still being necessary, it lingers like a bad taste. But then in all these years, neither of them have exactly protested against it either. 

Door shut, Arthur delicately shrugs off Dutch's grip, and settles himself into leaning within the doorframe, arms crossed. Noting the abject lack of Hosea's participation in this little rendezvous, he can't help but wonder if that was by Dutch's intent or not, to catch Arthur alone and cut off from Hosea's dogged support.  
Christ, he needs to get a grip. Sickened by even entertaining such a thing, and yet unable to shake the notion from his mind, Arthur uneasily eyes up Dutch, snakes squirming in his stomach as he does. 

It's peculiar. Twenty years spent knowing a person and yet in this moment all Arthur sees is a stranger. A grotesque pantomime, a thespian so caught in the act, held captive by his own unassailable devotion to the show, that he would disregard all that makes a person whole, all in the pursuit of upholding some venerated version of himself. 

In Arthur's mind, not that he possesses the intellect to voice an opinion on such matters, behaving as such is merely a sure fire way to label oneself a fool. Sure you can kid yourself into believing otherwise, find some grecian marvel standing before you in the mirror, but to the rest of the world, well…you'll appear about as sincere as a catch penny caricature, as opposed to an authentic portrait of a real human being. 

Thing is, Arthur wonders if Dutch can even tell the difference any more. Even now, everything a performance, even sitting down. For he sprawls over the desk, not dissimilar to a reptile, basking in the sun. To then pull out an intricately foiled cigar box from beneath the table top. The spoils revealed, several fingers thick, Dutch snips the end before wrapping his lips firmly around the cigar, coaxing it to life with a few stout puffs. Swilling it in his lungs, like a fine wine, before breathing it languidly to the air. Grimacing, barely attempting to disguise his disdain, Arthur clears his throat. 

"So, this new job. What you got for me Dutch?" 

"A delivery, my boy. Easy as plucking a freshly baked slice of pie from a housewife's window ledge." Dutch enunciates crisply, each syllable bouncing robustly off his tongue. A lilting melody that today, Arthur finds himself possessing little patience for. His consternation towards this whole endeavour is undeniable. It's hooks puckering under his skin, tugging him in every which way, it leaves Arthur immobilised, unable to discern which course will procure his escape without leaving tattered slivers of himself behind. 

It's hard to place the exact source of it all, why exactly he no longer believes in this…in Dutch. It's as though after all these years, some kind of spell has finally been lifted. Bestowed with clear eyes for the first time, he no longer sees a mentor in Dutch, a savoir. No, Charles has shown what true salvation might be, that is if such a thing exists, and if only he could just allow himself to reach for it. 

Because with Charles, it's effortless. Arthur trusts him with the entirety of himself, unconditionally. And as brilliant and terrifying as that notion surely is, that he could willingly give his whole self to another person, Arthur finds himself wanting it, more than anything. 

Perhaps it's simply that Charles never seems to ask for what Arthur is unable to give. He respects Arthur's boundaries, not that he even knew he had any to begin with, or how to voice them without feeling somehow infantile for requesting such things in the first place. Because whatever foolishness Arthur inadvertently forces the man through, Charles accepts with dignity, assuaging any doubts, any fears that Arthur holds so tightly within himself. All those messy contradictions, the self loathing, the anxiety, all those old scars that refuse to fade, are seen by Charles, revered even, because to him, they are seen not as a sign of weakness but as a sign of strength. 

And to be gifted even the barest of revelations in return, to be granted a glimpse within the meticulously crafted carapace that Charles has constructed, to learn about the man he was, the man he is, to each day look upon him and discover something new, it is something to be cherished. For theirs is a blossoming kind of trust, one that only seems to strengthen with the stretching of time, branching its roots to the earth and spreading its leaves to the sun. And his is not the kind of trust that demands, overbearing and unyielding. A conditional approval, one that must be continuously earnt, over and over as it sometimes feels with Dutch. There's no pressure there, to perform. To relinquish small pieces of himself, to mould himself into a man he ain't much proud of. If anything, with Charles it feels like he's gaining not losing. Like parched earth after a summer storm, he's recovering parts of himself he'd long believed to be razed to the ground, lost to an abject lack of sustenance, to years of neglect. 

It all serves to make Arthur believe, to hope, in some trite little corner of his heart,  
that perhaps maybe…maybe he does deserve more, maybe he does deserve to experience joy, love even, and to seek the kind of life that he'd always been too scared to admit wanting for, rather than merely accepting that which is handed to him. 

So, when he looks at Dutch now, sure he sees the man that, all those years ago, raised him from attrition, gave him a life with purpose, the chance to be a part of something bigger, something more than himself. But he can also see the incongruities, the rot laying beneath the foundation. Time having revealed the incurable reality, the unshakeable truths that he can no longer turn his back to. The bludgeoning revelation that his saviour could also be his captor. 

In any case, all Arthur can say is that, standing on the other side of himself, an impassive spectator to years upon years of emotional tyranny, concealed acts of cruelty that his younger self beared in the belief that they were surely justified, is that he is no longer that man. The falsehoods and the fantasies that kept the wheel of faith turning, all these years, no longer compel him. No longer do they nurture that inescapable codependence. A choking leash that has all this time kept Arthur docile and limp. Unable to see beyond what is scrupulously laid out before him, to leave him feeling secure only in what Dutch is benevolent enough to provide. To be drip-fed just enough to sate his appetite, but never enough to facilitate a future, a life in which Dutch is not the sole provider and facilitator of Arthur's very existence.

It also doesn't help that he feels like shit. His chest hurts fiercely, as it seems to be doing all the more frequently these days. And the thing is, Arthur would be lying if he said it wasn't starting to grate at him, it's enduring presence becoming a constant source of concern for him, forever burning at a low simmer in the back of his mind. As if the physical taxation it demands is not already enough, it must also drain him of his mental fortitude as well. 

Internally shaking himself, attempting to disperse those particularly disturbing ruminations, Arthur draws his focus in tight, to once again become an attendant onlooker to whatever play Dutch is currently enacting. At least he tries. For as melodramatic as it may sound, it is near impossible. The mere act of being in Dutch's presence, unbearable. Sapping what little energy he has left. Every flowery pronouncement just…washing over him, like one particularly unpalatable perfume. A cloying medley, dissonant notes of saccharine sweetness paired with astringent venom. Repugnant, not to mention utterly indecipherable. And possessing neither the desire nor the inclination to pick any of it apart, Arthur elects to just vapidly prompt the conversation along, wanting nothing more than to usher forth it's conclusion. 

"If you say so. So what's the angle, what did Trelawney say?"

At that, Dutch takes a calculated pause,  
apparently infusing the appropriate liniment, a soothing balm that will miraculously alleviate any abrasive misgivings his next words may or may not conjure. 

"Well you see, our man Trelawney is taking a back seat on this one, not that it matters. You'll be meeting with someone directly linked with the buyer, they don't want any middle men to muddy the waters so to speak." 

Brow furrowed as he absorbs Dutch's words, Arthur tries to recall the last time he run a job without Trelawney, without his artful hand pulling the strings just right. Apparently never, as he wracks his mind for such an instance. 

It's not as though he is incapable of working solo, to the contrary. But over the years Arthur has come to, in some peculiar way, enjoy Trelawney's buoyant eccentricity. It had used to leave him vexed, distrustful even, of a man who could curate such a flamboyant persona and yet somehow have it stick with such beguiling integrity. But then, now he thinks on it, hadn't he fallen for the exact same in Dutch? Christ, what a fool. 

But then Dutch…well Dutch has always been different. The hierarchy of their relationship placing the man firmly upon a gilt pedestal, practically raised to the status of godhood, all whilst Arthur scrabbled at his feet for mere scraps, scant offcuts of his attention, grateful even to have received that much. 

Whereas, least with Trelawney, they stand on the same ground so to speak. And well, as far as Arthur can tell, the man is mostly harmless. Sure, it took Arthur a while to cotton on, to unpick the threads of that brightly threaded costume he wears, but once Trelawney had let it slip about his family a few years back it all fell into place. For beneath that brightly polished veneer, those sparkling bells and whistles, is a man that Arthur recognises, at least partially as himself. A man who understands the value of privacy, of guarding his true self, or at least a portion of it from the world. It's just their suit of choice that differs, Arthur's being that of a churlish brute, a coarse, unthinking kind'a fellar, as opposed to the prim and pampered dandy that Trelawney so expertly personifies. 

And for what it is, as flighty as the man may seem, Trelawney's information has always been solid, and that, Arthur respects. So, to find out that he is to be walking into this job without that dependable backbone, that solid foundation to which he is so accustomed, it leaves him feeling somewhat fragile, exposed. As though he can already feel the eyes of unseen predators pressing down on him, like a glowing iron, searing their intent, their patient desire to swallow him whole all the way through to his bones. 

And not exactly veiling his disquiet, Arthur replies slow, scratching absently at the scrubby stubble under his chin. 

"Ok…no Trelawney. So, did they tell you what they need moving then?" 

To which again, Dutch falters. But this time, annoyance now pecking at his features, Arthur's persistent questioning, a flock of sparrows intent on heckling him. But then in the same moment, his features relax, ironed out to lay perfectly flat, indifferent and unaffected. 

"The details are…hazy. But I'm sure you'll manage. Just keep your head on straight and before you know it we'll all be rolling in a nice wad of cash." he reassures, smooth as silk. Conjuring his words from thin air, flourishing his cigar not unlike a magician and his wand, all whilst Arthur watches, impassive, waiting for the white rabbit to be pulled from the hat. 

"Uhuh." Arthur's scathing reply. 

And Dutch, having finally taken a moment to step out of his own shadow, seems to detect Arthur's indifference, the stiffness in his posture, the defiant refusal of eye contact, of his habitual, unwavering validation towards each and every word that pours from Dutch's mouth. 

Such an unprecedented turn as it is, Arthur's resounding disapproval seemingly leaves Dutch stunned into admission. His waxed mustache twitching erratically, dancing in time with the maelstrom of emotions tugging at his features. It's a jaunty little jig, that would be amusing under any other circumstance Arthur thinks. As it is, it's slightly unsettling, a marionette, yanked violently to and fro by his deranged puppeteer. But soon enough the performance is over, and Dutch wrangles it all back under control, his demeanour once again oozing with placatory charm, a mountain lion convincing a doormouse to creep out of his hollow. 

"Oh show a little enthusiasm Arthur! This is a golden opportunity for us. Look, the only pertinent detail you need to worry yourself over is that they are paying, and they are paying well." he emphasises, rubbing his fingers together pointedly. As though the gesture in itself might spark the reaction he seeks. It does not. Quietly seething, Arthur bites down on the petty retort longing to break free of his lips, jaw set like a vice, throat stoppered.

Money. It always comes down to fucking money. A justification, an excuse, a well worn litany. It's tedious familiarity, oh how it needles him. Incurring both a chronic apathy and hostility within, a rusted nail that Dutch is forever intent on hammering in, and usually, Arthur would yield, would just hold his tongue and accept the bitter truth of it. But this is it, the pin that tips the scales, the strike that has finally lit the match. And so, digging in his heels, Arthur rebutes. The words pouring from his mouth in a precipitous flurry, a rock slide. It's momentum compelled by such a ravenous fury he finds himself incapable of stopping. 

"Oh it's that easy huh? Well ain't you always saying, the devil's in the details? And we ain't got none, Dutch. So where does that leave us? Hell, I don't even know what I'm transporting!" Arthur spits out, gesturing to thin air, hands grasping at nothing at all in his frustration. "An' if they're actin' this cagey over it, I'm liable to thinking it's drugs or worse. An' you said...you said we'd never go back to running…that kinda shit!"

Coughing now, those last few words scramble out of Arthur's mouth. A feeble attempt to slip past the invisible noose, now tightening around his neck. But to no avail. Strangled into submission, his voice quavers, tailing off into a shivering weeze, none of it quite packing the punch he had intended for. And now, pawing in agitation at his shirt, trying to loosen the suffocating collar, he hunches over, coughing wretchedly into the crook of his elbow. It lasts what seems to be an age when in reality it is perhaps all but a minute. And yet it is enough to leave his vision spotting, his eyes now weeping involuntarily in its wake. And spent, Arthur leans heavily on his knees, his breath parting in short pants, as he struggles to steady himself. 

All while undeterred, or simply unsympathetic Dutch barrels on, his unrelenting momentum masquerading as vigour, as opposed to impatientence, which, by the agitated set of his jaw, the pulsing vein in his temple, is assuredly what tremors just beneath the surface. 

"Oh Arthur, have a little faith! I trust you to do this right, don't you trust me? Now have I ever placed you in the path of undue danger my boy? Of course not!" Dutch scoffs, with an airy chuckle, the mere suggestion, ludicrous. "I see that you're a little under the weather, perhaps that's what's clouding your judgement, hm?" his tone cajoles, a derivative smile dripping like wax down his face. As though Arthur's evident distress is but a dramatisation, merely the sullen act of a whining child, vying for attention. 

And grimacing, choking on the humiliation, the stifling shame of being undermined, of being branded as incapable, as weak, Arthur remains silent, head hung. Pinned, as though Dutch has the heel of his hand pressed firmly to the base of his skull, fingers knotted in his hair, crushing his face malignly into the dirt. 

As it is, body and mind failing, and wanting nothing more but to escape this living hell at all costs, Arthur resorts to the only course he knows that Dutch will surely accept. And so he concedes, voice bleeding around the edges. 

"It ain't…it ain't like that Dutch, you know I've always been loyal, to you, to the gang." he mumbles. Stifling a long suffering sigh as he does, repulsed by his own spinelessness, by his own self-betrayal. But Dutch, apparently having heard all that he needed to hear, offers a staccato pat on the shoulder, an affirmative little squeeze. As though such a minute gesture could heal, could reverse all that has passed between them. 

And now, guiding Arthur's chin upwards whilst holding his gaze down, Dutch imparts his next words with such unshaken conviction, such resolute faith, that for a moment, Arthur is almost convinced. 

"Hey, we are in this together. Now c'mon son, what's got you so sour all of a sudden? You never used to be like this, you were and always have been a man of action! Fighting the big fight for this little family of ours, what happened to that Arthur, to my Arthur might I ask?"

And the way Dutch looks at him, the way he speaks, it's almost like the old days, almost like he still sees something in Arthur worth saving. A squandered potential, a selflessness, that has now turned in on itself. Whatever it is, a buried truth, a lost piece of himself that only Dutch can pluck out, that only Dutch can polish and restore to its former glory. But only if Arthur just listens, just follows his mentor's lead, only then perhaps…perhaps it could all be alright. 

And Arthur, oh how he wants to believe it, to believe him. To look into Dutch's eyes and not constantly doubt what he is hearing, what he is seeing. For part of him still yearns, most likely will always yearn, for days gone by, when everything seemed so crystalline in its simplicity. To be the young man who could blindly follow, could exist as such and not long for anything more. Ceaselessly grateful to even be entrusted with a life he could at least give to others as opposed to wasting on himself. 

But it's not the same as it was. Perhaps Dutch hasn't changed, perhaps it really is just Arthur. So preoccupied, so wholly possessed by his own wants and desires that he truly is incapable of seeing the greater picture. And what if it's true? That in doing so, he has inadvertently let them all down, let himself down for not believing in this anymore, for not being capable of what once came so easy, so thoughtlessly to him? But that's the heart of it, he can't stop thinking. Like the pounding flow of water from an unminded faucet, his tangled wants and desires, his devotion to Dutch, to Charles…to everyone, it all just keeps running, filling the tub, spilling onto the floor, through the floorboards, flooding the whole goddamn house in this ridiculous metaphor, uncaring to the fact that Arthur is being slowly drowned in the process. 

It's impossible, infuriating. Unable to tell up from down, right from wrong. So addled by Dutch's serpentine whisperings, his ceaseless mindfuckery, all Arthur wants, needs, is for it to stop. To beat his fist bloody, to scream to the stars, bash his own head in, anything at all, if only to be granted the gift of silence. To not doubt every single thought that trickles through his thick skull. To just be…mindless.

And Dutch, still as he is, leaning into Arthur's space, face painted over with a cheap impersonation of paternal concern, well, it near drives him to insanity.

"Oh that's rich, what happened to your Arthur? Maybe he ain't looking to get a life sentence for possession! Or maybe, he just wants to have a normal fucking life! How about that Dutch?" 

Arthur straightens up now, despite his lurching head, his tightening chest. Determined to at least look Dutch in the eye, to defend himself with what little self-possession he has left. 

"Or maybe he don't believe in any of this anymore! Who are we helping Dutch, really? 'Cause it don't feel like we're helping anyone but ourselves, an' I don't know if can live like that no more. It ain't right. 'Fore, we used to take folks in, give 'em a roof over their head. All'a us was offcuts and outcasts, folks who never could fit into a society that looked at us like shit on it's heel. But that didn't matter, we had eachother, and that was all we needed. But, it ain't the same, not any more."

At that, Arthur pauses. Caught for a moment by a swelling misery, a weighted grief. Mourning the life that was, the life that is. Thinking of all the old gang members, scattered now, like leaves to the wind. Thinking of all those times spent together, good and bad. Some of the best and worst years of his life those had been, and now all Arthur is left to wonder is if it was all even worth it in the end. How many people had they helped, truly?

The youngsters, at least had managed to escape relatively intact, to build some kind of life from the ashes. But the rest of them? So many of them had been at their lowest when Dutch had reached out his hand to them, and now Arthur can't help but think there was no coincidence in that. For in the end, how many of them had entered the gang as lost and broken things only to leave it just the same? Too many. And now, all these years later…well, all he can think is, what a waste it all has been. 

With a ragged intake of breath, he speaks softly now, as if only to himself, "An' maybe I'm just not the same, maybe I have gotten too old…too soft. But thing is, I thought…well I just thought it would'a turned out different by now. I thought there'd come a time I wouldn't need to run jobs no more, that we would all be makin' an honest livin', but it's been five fuckin' years, and ain't nothin' changed, an' I just…I'm tired Dutch, real tired."

And in the ensuing silence, his ears ringing, Arthur wavers, eyes wild. Having surprised even himself following that impromptu little speech. And just as suddenly, he pales, face draining. As if just now realising the mound of shit he has dug himself into by running his mouth so loose. Like a new-born colt taking its first steps, he's caught between boldly marching on, or allowing his trembling legs the tender mercy of crumpling up from under him. For now, about all he can muster is to remain still, silent. To not back down. A meagre gesture in itself, but an act of rebellion nonetheless. 

And Dutch, bristling now, with a kind of unhinged calm, apparently recognising that Arthur is now to be a lost cause, speaks slowly, purposefully, allowing no space for misunderstanding. Like sugar laced with rat poison, or vice versa, as though the face his enmity wears somehow matters when the result is quantifiably the same, Dutch's next words are deliberately cruel. A calculated attack, neither caring to salvage nor reconcile, no his sole intent is to incapacitate, to destroy. To brutally bulldoze his proponent into unending submission. 

"Now, I don't appreciate your tone Arthur. You would do well to remember where you came from. Need I remind you who lifted you out the gutter, who gave you a life that was worth something? You would be nothing without me. Would you rather I simply let you pick up where you left off? To slip right back into that life of depravity and abasement you were living when we first found you, is that truly what you want?"

And then, Dutch pauses, taking the precious time to measure his final blow, so very determined for it to strike true. For as gratuitous as the damage already is, he is still content to wrangle what little life is left, to squeeze Arthur's faltering pulse in the meat of his palm until it, until he no longer exists. For only then will he be satisfied, only then will his victory be true. At the precise moment his quarry lays dead, throat ripped out and steaming in the dirt. 

And so, with his blade of choice now honed sharp, Dutch takes one last opportunity to admire his own handiwork, before plunging it in deep, nice and slow, "Although I imagine you're a little long in the tooth for that kind of thing now? Perhaps that's the root of this little distraction, this fling you've got yourself so caught up in, chasing what you know you can't have." he muses, eyes flicking over, alight with an unspoken provocation. 

And Arthur, so enraged, so impossibly blindsided by a fury he hadn't even known to be possible, unknowingly tightens his fist. Blood howling in his ears, skin itching to be sated. But he remains still, instead summoning his voice from the lowliest caverns of his throat. 

"I ain't a fan of what you're insinuating Dutch."

"And what would that be, do illuminate me Arthur?" Dutch goads lazily. 

"Look, don't you be draggin' Charles into this. He ain't got nothin' to do with it!" Arthur snarls, rabid. 

To which Dutch spouts, "Oh so you would have me believe, your little collusion with Mr. Smith, which so conveniently coincides with this uncharacteristic display of treachery might I add, are both entirely circumstantial? Do you take me for a fool?" 

Scoffing derivatively, Dutch turns away, momentarily incapable of entertaining such ludicrousness. But elastic, he snaps back with blistering rapidity. Like clockwork, launching into some elusory speech concerning the greater mechanisms of life, the virtues of duty, the price of family. Subtleties and vagaries that Arthur is apparently incapable of grasping, a philistine endowed with unfathomable knowledge. And Arthur, he only just grasps the tail end of it at all anyway, so entrapped by his own incapacitating rage as he is. 

"...Look, as the shepherd of our little flock it is my duty, no my pride! To ensure each and every one you is cared for, like my own. But, if a member of the group was to threaten that, a proverbial black sheep if you will, then I would be obligated to cut them loose, do you understand?"

And not even waiting for a reply, Dutch continues, "Now I'm willing to let this impudence slide Arthur, but listen to me, and listen well. You are going to do this job, alright? You're going to do it for Hosea, for John and Abigail, for little Jack and you're going to do it for me, because they--because I need you to do it. And if you don't, well perhaps you ought to seek out this so-called honest living elsewhere.  
For believe me when I say, that if you leave there'll be no place for you here, there is no place for doubters, no place for traitors, this here is a family and we stick together."

"Sure." Biting the inside of his cheek, jaw wired shut, Arthur tastes copper on his tongue. 

"No 'sure', repeat after me, yes Dutch." 

"Yes Dutch."

"Good. Now get out of my sight. And for pity's sake get that unseemly cough looked at." Dutch states tartly, already sliding back behind his desk, barely even gracing Arthur with the fleeting benefit of his undivided attention. Fixated instead on snapping open the cigar box, and unveiling its contents once more, picking out a fresh smoke as though making a selection from a box of chocolates. 

And taking that as his dismissal, Arthur stalks out of the office, fuming. Fire door slamming shut behind him. 

***

Punched hard by the change in air as he exits, Arthur stumbles over himself, limbs leaden and unwieldy, he just manages to save face. 

But still, trapped in the aftermath of such a vicious storm, mind and body starved for catharsis, a violent act to quash the crippling powerlessness roiling within him, Arthur resorts to landing a sloppy kick into a turned over keg, the impact rattling his teeth, spinning his head on its axis. And then, snarling at his own idiocy, he grips the toe of his boot, eyes pricking with the pin drops of unsolicited tears. 

The keg however, remains impassive. Silently observing him with all the immovable self-confidence of a mountain, unfazed and uncomprehending of such fleeting trivialities as human affectivity, or indeed Arthur's throbbing appendages for that matter. 

Sighing, too exhausted, too shamed, to entertain any further exercises in futility for today, Arthur lets it slide, grateful that at least no animate being bared witness to his incapacity to kick an object with proper conviction, Christ. So pathetic as to not even be angry right. 

Gritting his teeth, Arthur eases himself down onto his haunches, silently willing his body to just fucking cooperate this once. But if anything, his request is rebuffed with an all but resounding refusal. Throat scorching, and temples pounding besides. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he lets slip an almost imperceptible whine. It's as though a miniature drummer has taken up lodging within his skull, laying out his implacable beat, obtrusive and belligerent. At least until the tempo falters, drawn into silence as a wispy ahem snaps Arthur from out of his torpor, to then be followed by an equally insubstantial declaration. 

"Hey…you alright? You ain't looking so good."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Arthur has to resist the urge to physically recoil. Fuck. Just his fucking luck, of course John fucking Marston would be taking a fucking break now. Grimacing, Arthur draws his gaze slowly up, from scuffed boots and trodden hems to ropy legs and broad shoulders, until finally their eyes catch one another's. And John, well he's just a picture. Eyes wide, mouth agape, a cigarette dangling limp from his lips, he just stands there, useless. Irked by the mere sight, Arthur snaps, not much caring to baste his tone. 

"Yeah no shit. You just gonna stand there an' watch?" 

And Arthur waiting for John's fiery rebuttal, the predictable indignation that is surely longing to break the surface, is in fact left readily surprised when received instead with a cautious hand out, a brittle olive branch. 

"You…wanna talk about it?"

Clicking his tongue, Arthur fixes his gaze astutely on a clump of grass just ahead, as opposed to replying. Simultaneously touched and offended that John would even think to ask. And whilst a portion of him is sorely tempted to let it all out, the insurmountable effort of conveying the depths of his discomfort, his distrust and general malaise seems hardly worth opening his mouth for. 

Still locked in an internal debate on the matter, he glances over. John, slowly tapping out a new cig, he then hands over the pack, a silent offering, a careful placation. One which Arthur grudgingly accepts, not much caring that the tobacco will undoubtedly stir up his lungs something terrible. As in his opinion, what is already a catastrophic failure of a day can surely get no worse, drops in the ocean as the saying goes. And well, given the circumstances, nerves still shot, Arthur would be remiss to say he didn't long for a good smoke, simply to quiet down his disposition, to still the persistent tremor in his hands. 

So he accepts. Not that it was even a choice to start. Hasn't been a choice for near-on twenty years. Ever since stealing that first pack off his pa, lighting each little stick on the stove top, before skulking out to the porch to puff the whole lot down his lungs, had made him puke all over the deck, fucking idiot. And Christ, he had received such a whooping for that when Lyle eventually did find out. Not that it had stopped him. To the contrary, it only cemented Arthur's inexorable desire to smoke all the more. 

Certainly, that summer he had spent as often as he could leaning out his bedroom window, all the way through to the early hours of morning, drinking it all in, each drag of nicotine taken nice and slow. Watching the sunrise spread its fingers to the sky, feeling all kinds of wistful longings, and breathing them out to the wind. Or else when home wasn't safe, he'd leave for days on end, with a cig clamped firm between his lips. A nigh constant companion whilst on those perpetual walks he took back then. Always on the move, never lingering long enough in one place that the shadow of his father might catch him. Wandering through the backwoods, up and down the streets, wherever his beat up sneakers took him. 

Now he thinks on it, then was also about the time he started drawing. Makes sense Arthur supposes. Smoking and drawing, drawing and smoking, those becoming the two crutches that held him up during those dreadful years. And well, whilst his drawing has venerably fallen to the wayside, kicked to the curb for the pain it stokes, smoking has taken up that mantle quite nicely, becoming a routine comfort, worn in like a pair of old slippers, faithful and dependable. 

And still to this day, each time he lights up, he chases that first breath, that very first high he had felt as a boy. Anything to feel that weightless again. 

And so, lit up, courtesy of John, Arthur takes a pensive drag, speaking on the exhale, watching the smoke trail aimlessly, absorbed by the expansive sky. 

"Mm. Tired. Tired of Dutch putting on airs, tired of playing his fuckin' game of cat and mouse. Tired of waitin' for him, for things to change full well knowing it's like askin' a tiger to change his stripes."

"I uhh…didn't realise it was eatin' at you this bad." John replies lamely. 

"Yeah, well you wouldn't." Arthur rejoinders sourly. Already crushing the cigarette beneath his boot, chest convulsing weakly, he stifles the oncoming cough as best he can. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eyes narrowed, John takes the bait, defensiveness slipping into his tone.

"Oh come off it Johnny, you've always been the golden boy. Even back then in Valentine's, all you had to do was flutter your eyelashes when the real work got too hard, and Dutch took you off the job roster lickety split. You ain't never had to dirty your hands with all the unsavoury particulars. No, all you do is reap the benefits, all while those around you pull your weight." 

And leaning back with a callous shrug, Arthur wonders if perhaps he shouldn't have spilt so much. But then today has already proven he clearly doesn't know when to shut his trap. And after that entire debacle with Dutch, well maybe it really is just a day for burning bridges. It certainly seems set to end that way, with John bristling like a coon with its tail stepped on. 

"What the hell you talkin' about, I work don't I?" 

And shaking his head, Arthur audibly scoffs, finding himself genuinely ired by John's unfailing ability to never grasp the point. 

For deliberate or no, his callowness is an unwelcome reminder of years upon years of utter bullshit, of just a general carelessness and intention that seems innate to John's very nature. It's a reminder of each and every time John has shirked responsibility, letting it fall into the hands of some unsuspecting fool, more often than not himself, and never to be reprimanded for any of it. 

No, angels would weep before Hosea or Dutch ever called John out on anything he did or didn't do. Jesus, the man's pushing thirty for chrissakes and they still treat him as though he ought to be protected, shielded from the uncouth tyranny of the real world. Both of them cradling him in a cocoon of complacency, guarding him within the walls of an ivory tower. Not an accommodation that Arthur was ever afforded, he ponders brutishly. 

Even in the early days the separation of their roles had been made evidently clear, much like night and day. John, the prize pony, spoilt rotten, never having needed to sully his pristine coat with all the dirt and the blood. No, that fell to Arthur, the dutiful workhorse, or perhaps the old nag would be more befitting these days. At least it feels as such, as though Dutch is just waiting for the right excuse to send him down to the knackers yard, turn him into glue. And part of Arthur knows directing his anger at John is futile. It's not his fault he got picked out as favourite, although part of Arthur doubts John is even aware of half the preferential treatment he receives, and that in itself is enough to just fucking piss him off all over again.

"Oh you work do you? You pour a beer three times a week and call that work. Christ, you as dumb as you look? The bar ain't work! What, you really think this dump makes enough to sustain itself, to sustain all'a us without the cash I bring in? It's just a front, it ain't making no money! Hell, you could go and fuck off for another year an' no-one would even notice! 'Cause I'd still be here, paying your wage and your bills." 

And as though in recompense for throwing out such brackish words, Arthur can already tell what is surely coming. Squeezing his knees to his chest in anticipation, he braces himself. Holding on tight as more rank coughing loosens whatever is gluing his throat shut. Slumping, Arthur gives up any attempt to crouch and instead slides himself to the ground, leaning heavily into the wall behind. Decisively ignoring John for the time being as he reconstitutes himself. Which probably is just stoking the fire of the other man's frustration all the more. 

Knocking the back of his head to the brick, in idle frustration, idiot. He already regrets having spoken any of that. Once again any opportunity at meaningful conversation passed between them squandered, on the cusp of devolving into a slew of shit slinging, petty and undeniably messy. And sure enough, John runs in, guns blazing. 

"Oh fuck off you self righteous prick, you hear yourself? Of course I know that!" A rattle snake lodged in his throat, he spits. "And guess what? Me and Abigail never asked for your charity, we never asked you to pay our way, to give half your life away for us! So all that resentment that's eating you up, that's on you Arthur, not me. And hell, maybe if you'd just back off then I would be able to provide for my family, 'cause maybe that's something I want, you ever think of that? Maybe I'm sick of depending on you for everythin', for the bread on my table and the roof over my head! Ever think of that?"

And pacing up and down, a caged dog, John just keeps barking, "Christ, I never known someone so up themselves and yet so fucking obsessed with painting himself a martyr! Look, if babysitting me bothers you so much, then just leave, go! Ain't no-one stopping you! What, you resent me for putting my family first, is that it? You know I told Abby that I'd never run those jobs for Dutch again, and here I was thinking you'd be happy I'd kept that promise all'a these years! But no, you just been chewing on it this entire time! Well you know what, fuck you Arthur."

"I…uh." Caught completely off kilter, Arthur balks. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I ain't...I didn't mean any of that."

"Yeah well it's a little late to be apologizing. I just…I don't get it. Why the fuck are you so invested in my life? Don't you have one of your own?" 

It's a question that Arthur doesn't particularly know how to answer, because if it isn't obvious, he doesn't. His life never truly has been his own, not entirely. And even now, with one hand held loose on the reigns of his own destiny, with that elusive promise of freedom, of escape in sight, Arthur is still lost. The promise of a future, slipping like sand between his fingers. And he doesn't know how to hold onto it, how to live right, or to do right by those he cares for as resoundingly evidenced by this very conversation. 

And Arthur can't deny the truth of it. All these years, convincing himself he had no choice but to step in, to provide a safety net for Abby and Jack lest John take his leave for another indeterminate period of time and leave them all high and dry. Not that John has ever indicated he would leave again, but that fear, it lived, lives in Arthur always. Never quite able to entirely hold John at his word, to trust him to step up and be a man. But then, how much of that is the ghosts of his own past Arthur wonders, too much undoubtedly. Sighing heavily, Arthur attempts to repair the damage. 

"John, I don't bear a grudge to you for taking a step back from all'a this shit, from putting your family's safety first. An' I'm sorry for denyin' you the chance to look after them as you want. I think…well, just wish I had the sense to do the same as you, back when I still had a chance. Prolly why I have such a hard time just letting you be, 'cause I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. But you're right John. It ain't my place to dump all'a my shit on you. 'Specially when you have been keeping your priorities straight, least you been trying, far as I can tell."

And after a just a beat too long, John replies.

"Sure, I uh, 'preciate you saying that." Scuffing the toe of his boot awkwardly into the dirt, John now fights an internal struggle. Obligated in some way to voice what is presumably both sitting heavy on their minds, but not entirely sure how to broach it without Arthur snapping his head clean off. But he tries, gently shaking Arthur's shoulder, bringing him back to attention. 

"Hey…what you said, you still blame yourself for that? All'a that with Eliza and Issac, that wasn't your fault Arthur, you know that right? Wasn't nothing you could have done."

"Yeah. Maybe."

And sighing, John doesn't push it. Instead simply stating, "Look, I'm grateful that you been wanting to look out for Abigail and Jack, but it ain't your fight Arthur, you gotta let it go. I'm here ok, I'm not going anywhere."

"I get it John. I do. I just…do you got any kind'a plan? Me, it don't matter. But you, you can't stay here forever. Abigail and Jack, they deserve a real chance, a real future and you ain't gonna find that here. An' I don't mean to be indelicate, but things between me and Dutch right now…well suffice to say they ain't good. Don't know how much longer all'a this is gonna last anyways if I'm being perfectly honest."

"Yeah, no kidding. You know I could hear you both hollerin' at each other from the other room right?" 

"I…uh, shit. You really heard all that?" Arthur glances up, cringing in on himself. 

"Yeah. Does…is Dutch always like that with you? Why'd you never say anything Arthur? Me and Abbie, Hosea even, I dunno...We could'a done something about it, maybe." 

"I guess. I mean that's the first time in a long while that it's gotten that heated. An' the rest of the time, well…figured I probably deserved it or else just didn't think no-one would believe me anyway."

"Christ Arthur." 

"...Yeah."

Both of them tied down by such bleak confessions, it only seems right to let the quiet rest for as long as need be. But eventually the moment does pass, Arthur finally feeling steady enough to push himself off the ground and stand for a brief stint, does so. And John, looking to guide the conversation back to it's original destination, or something at least resembling that, answers the question still left hanging. 

"Look, I uh, me and Abby, we have been talking it over, leaving that is. You know, finding a better school for Jack, somewhere with a college, so she can get her training to be a teacher, do what she always dreamed of, working with kids." 

"Ok…so what about you, where'd you fit in in all of this?" Arthur prompts carefully. 

"I'll find work, don't much matter what." wringing his hands, almost as though embarrassed to admit such things, John continues, "Was thinking I might try my hand at mechanics, find a good apprenticeship or something. I mean I always liked my bikes right? And I ain't much good for riding them no more since the accident…" frowning, John absently scratches at the marred skin of his cheek, "but working on them, think I could be happy doin' that." he affirms. 

And Arthur nods. The accident of course being when John had fallen off his bike, his pride and his joy, hit by drunk driver. Flung over the handles to find himself coasting down the asphalt a good twenty feet, breaking his leg and slicing up his face besides on a spread of broken glass and shrapnel from the collision. 

It had been a nasty business. The bike, written off and John laid up in hospital for a good six months, learning to walk again. His leg still not quite right, even now. Sure he can walk on it just fine, but still doesn't stop it from being riddled by pain, jangling pins and needles, particularly during the colder months. And of course, riding bikes well that's out of the question now. Even if John were still physically able, the wrath he would face at the hands of Abigail if he did so much look at a motorcycle with such an intent would likely land him right back into the ICU. 

But to hear that John has indeed been using that head of his, setting down stones and laying some kind of foundation. Well, it instills a peculiar cocktail of emotions inside Arthur. Pride, but shared with a biting kind of melancholy. Finally being forced to accept, what he supposes most older brothers, the makeshift fathers, are forced to accept. That the time will come when his presence will no longer be necessary, that his place in John's life, and vice versa will no longer be as tied as it once was. John following his dreams and Arthur, well hopefully doing the same, if all of this is to work out. 

"Shit, you really thought about this ain't you? So what's stopping you then Marston, why the cold feet?" he jabs lightly, hoping to at least partway disguise his own conflicted feelings on the matter. 

And John's face pinches, distress eating at his features.

"I…it ain't that easy. I want to hope, but…But what if I ain't good enough? What if I can't live up to what she, what the boy deserves? I start thinking like that, and don't seem much point in even trying. Seems better not to try even, kinder, to…y'know, spare 'em both the indignity of getting their hopes up, all for nothin'. I mean look at me now, I've had you to fight my battles for me all this time, so what good would I be on my own, not much." Gesturing to Arthur as if to affirm his point, he then continues, "See, I wanna earn their trust. To be a man worthy of it. To do something fine and wonderful, 'cause I love them Arthur, more than anything. But still feels like I ain't never gonna be the man they need to be happy, to have a good life." 

Worrying at his lip, John stares ahead, and he looks so fucking young, like he's baring the whole weight of the world on his shoulders, Arthur can't stand it any longer. Without space for thought he locks John into a bodily hug, hoping to convey all that he cannot put into words. To convey that despite their disagreements, their nigh constant bickering, that he loves John with every bone in his body, that he would do anything for him, that he is a good father, a good husband, and that he hates himself holding on the past for so damned long, for squandering all those years that could have been spent as friends, as brothers.

And rigid as a log throughout in his surprise, John reacts too just a hair too late, hands grasping at air, with Arthur already pulling away to look him firm in the eyes. 

"Now listen here. You don't get to decide if you're worth their love or not. That's their choice, and they clearly already made it. You'd be mad not to see that Abigail would follow you to the end of the earth and back. And Jack, well much as you don't want to see it, he admires you, he does. So you're worthy, ok? Don't ever think otherwise."

And John, still possessing the disposition of a deer caught in headlights, just stares, blankly. Sighing, Arthur eases off a touch. "Look, them that love you ain't looking for you to move the entire world to show you care. You hold yourself to that kinda standard an' o' course you ain't ever gonna feel good enough! Change, real change ain't a destination that can be reached with one noble act, some grandiose gesture that'll tip the scales forever. You wanna change? Then you change a little, each and everyday you fight to be someone better, 'till it sticks, that's the truth of it. Sure, you can keep punishing yourself. Hold yourself to the notion that you're good for nothing better, and find some kinda solace in the fact. But believe me, you resign yourself to that way of thinking, then you deserve exactly what's coming to you." 

"Is this you speaking from personal experience?" John mumbles, finally having found his voice, albeit thick and unwieldy as it sounds. 

"Somethin' like that." Arthur smiles wryly, giving John a half hearted nudge, always the little smart ass. 

"Yeah well you're one to talk Arthur, what happened to practising what you preach? You ain't never thought yourself worthy of nothing or no-one, ever. So, you gonna follow your own advice?" John asks squarely. Eyes clear, accusing. 

"No. Maybe, I dunno! Look, I'm tryin'. And so should you is all I'm sayin'." Arthur blunders, caught in his own trap. 

And rightfully unconvinced, John presses. 

"Sure, ok. But seriously, what about you? This all goes sideways, what are you gonna do huh? I ain't leaving you here without knowing that you got a plan too asshole."

And Arthur, somewhat peeved by John's goddamn willfulness, huffs in exasperation, turning his head obstinately to the side as if that is answer enough. Whilst John, scowling with an adamance of equal measure, is content, apparently to wait all day for an answer to weedle its way from out of Arthur's lips. 

"Look John, I ain't got a family, I ain't got all that, I mean not that I don't--" 

"--Shut it, you do got a family, right here dumbass." And impatient now with Arthur's dithering, John cuts through the bullshit. 

"So you think it's gonna be serious with you an' him, you and Charles?" his dark eyes, sparking like flint, sharp and hard. 

"I uh, I dunno. I hope so." Arthur mutters to the ground, gruff. 

"Good, see, wasn't that hard was it." John chides. 

"What?" 

"To admit you got a heart you sour old coot" answering with a shit eating grin on his face, John has already skirted out of Arthur's reach, his attempt to administer a firm swat to the head, connecting instead with empty space. 

"Oh shut your trap you little ingrate, don't know why I even bother--" Arthur grouses, all bark and no bite. 

"Alright, alright! Christ, easy." hands raised, a show of peace. "Look, I wanna be serious for a minute alright. I, well, its just real nice to see you happy Arthur. Lord knows 'bout time you found someone who could put a smile on your face. My condolences to Charles though, can't imagine what it must be like having to stare at your grinning mug all day and night long. Honestly, swear you was like a school boy at the carnival, fucking preening at him like a--"

" --Yeah, yeah, alright! Christ, wrap it up Marston." Arthur grumbles, ears and cheeks burning furiously, as John cackles away merrily in his periphery. 

Whilst Arthur, with as much good grace as he can muster, waits patiently for John to have his fill. And eventually, braying liked a kicked mule, John clears his throat, wrapping it up with a conciliatory pat, which disgruntled, Arthur shrugs off. 

"Hey, hey, all joking aside, you know you're family right? You're my brother Arthur. I know we don't always see eye to eye, but…fuck, I care about you alright, and I always will. So I'm tellin' you straight, don't worry 'bout me and Abigail, just go…go live your own life for once, alright?"

"I, thank you John." throat tight, Arthur offers a curt nod. 

"Yeah, ok. Now go on, get. You look like shit old man." 

***

Sat back in the cab of his truck, Arthur lets his head thump into the headrest, his body, sagging into the spongey apolstered seat. 

Eyes closed, he focuses in his breathing. Easing the air in as gentle as he can, still it rakes, crackling like dry leaves in his lungs. But persevering, Arthur holds it tight in his chest for as long as he is able, burning. And then, like a ratty old car backfiring, it all comes spitting out with an unceremonious clap. Choking, he leans over, blind and scrambling for the latch, he shoves the door open. Hanging limp over the edge, breath bubbling in his throat, Arthur gags, hacking up the obstruction with a grimace, into the dirt. 

And with it done, shivering, sweat sticking to his shirt, Arthur slides back into the seat, wiping his chin on his sleeve. Letting loose a strained sigh, there's not much to be done or said about what just happened. Nor does he possesses the mental or physical fortitude to confront it now anyhow. So, he gathers his bearings, wrapping numb fingers around his phone, and dials Charles' number.

"Hey, how'd it go?" 

"'Bout as well as one might expect."

"That bad huh?" 

And with a bitter chuckle, Arthur replies, 

"Worse. I uh, I lost my temper. Pretty much fucked all'a us out the chance to leave here quiet. Surprised Dutch ain't already disowned my ass. I mean, he might as well have, prolly would'a been a lot less painful than some of the shit he said to be perfectly honest."

"Arthur…I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?" Charles asks gently. 

"Nah, it's done. Don't really wanna dwell on it right now. And anyway, I spoke with John." Arthur brightens, eager to change the subject. 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah, and that actually went better than I thought, wonders never cease huh? Well I mean we hit a few bumps, but reckon we aired out a lot of dirty laundry that needed airing, y'know? An' I feel pretty hopeful now that whatever comes, John, he'll do alright."

"That's great Arthur, I'm glad you two were able to talk it out with one another. And long overdue too, by the sounds of it." 

"Yeah, without a doubt."

And then a tentative pause. 

"So…what's your plan now?" Charles asks, with a forced indifference. 

"Well this job is still a go…unfortunately. But I do have time. So I'm gonna go home pack a bag, and head over to you, sound good?" 

"Yes. I mean of course, I…yes." Charles replies stiltingly, uncharacteristically flustered. 

Unbearably endearing, Arthur holds back on bringing attention to it, not wanting to embarrass the poor man further. But unable to help himself from smiling warmly down the phone line nonetheless, he drawls, 

"Sure." 

And Charles, like a bolt snaps back to attention, 

"But, you sure you're ok to travel? Truthfully? You'd tell me if you weren't, right?" his anxiety spiking down the receiver. 

"O'course." Arthur reassures placidly. 

"Positive?" 

"I uhh, look. I ain't gonna sugar coat it, feel like a crusty old dogshit that's been sat on the sidewalk all day long--" 

"--Oh gross," 

"But I'll be ok to drive. An' I wanna leave now, while there's still light. So I'll see you soon, ok?" 

"Ok, see you soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope all is well xx
> 
> This one was hard, honestly apologies if it is a bit of a scattered mess. With Arthur and Dutch...I don't necessarily intend to paint Dutch solely as an irredeemable villain, but neither do I want to absolve him of any of the pain he has caused, and in any case, at this point in the story, I don't believe it's time to be exploring such things just yet. 
> 
> As at least for Arthur, I think it is still too raw to be looking at through an objective lense. Coming to terms with years of emotional manipulation is a gargantuan task. One that is sure to be littered with pitfalls, doubts and fears, anger and grief. Arthur's pretty open disdain towards Dutch in this chapter I feel is in large part because is self directed, Arthur being disgusted in himself for falling for this act so long. Whilst of course paired with just a genuine and justified anger towards the way Dutch continues to treat him. 
> 
> All I can say is that tensions are high and things are changing rapidly after years of simply maintaining the status quo. So when it comes to Dutch, naturally he is intent on fighting against such change, and to the bitter end. Even if it means razing everything to the ground in the process, his relationships with others of the gang included.
> 
> As for the conversation with John. It may have seemed harsh of him to come down on Arthur as he did, but I think it was an important lesson that needed to be learnt. To move forward, Arthur has to let go on any resentment he may hold onto, to recognise that you cannot turn around and blame people for accepting you help, nor you can expect them to help you if you refuse to tell them what is wrong.
> 
> And Arthur's coughing...well, yeah. That's gonna continue to suck for a while longer. Apologies. 
> 
> Phew, I think that was everything I wanted to talk about. Also apologies for any mistakes, this chapter is so big, I'm done rereading it lol. 
> 
> See you in the next chapter, any of you who are still reading xx


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the adrenaline wanes, the exhaustion starts to fill him instead, limbs heavy, blood turned to lead. However, it is a price that right now, he is more than willing to pay. Because, as with most panic attacks that he has experienced in his day, Arthur finds the ensuing fatigue anesthetizes any lingering anxiety quite well, lulling it to sleep for a blessed few hours. And that, well, it almost makes it worth it…almost. 
> 
> It's what allows him now, to quietly pick himself back up, to finish undressing and step into the warm water still pounding out of the showerhead. And it's what allows him later to carefully slide himself into bed next to Charles, to wrap his arms around him and to fall asleep once more, by his side. 
> 
> ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!
> 
> It's pretty short, but I figured it best to break if up here as the next one is probably going to be a behemoth.
> 
> Also warnings for panic attacks, Arthur has it pretty rough in this one. 
> 
> Other than that keep cool, see you in the next one xx

Arthur steps up to the door sometime after sundown. Knuckles dragging down the wood, once, twice, thrice. 

He'd stopped at a gas station along the way, picked up some caffeine pills or some other such thing, the kid behind the register having sworn by them. And fat lot of good they've done, he still feels like hammered shit, undoubtedly looks like it too.

Grumbling, he shifts in place, prepares to knock again and then the door swings open, Charles standing tall and proud on the other side. And before Arthur can even slip a word in edgeways he is held at arm's length in stern silence, Charles methodically examining him up and down. 

He fidgets, the discomfort of being so keenly observed laying a fuse under his skin, Arthur bites down on the urge to bat Charles away. Recognising that whilst to him it is entirely unnecessary, to Charles it is an important step in alleviating the panic, the uncertainty that so doggedly hounds him. And now gesturing for Arthur to lift his arm, he obliges curiously. Charles picking at the fabric of his shirt. 

"Hey…you have blood on your sleeve."

Scrunching his brow, Arthur looks down, and sure enough a few dried spots are peaking back up at him, nestled into the crook of his elbow. 

"Oh, well would you look at that. Huh. Prolly just a little scrape or somethin'." 

"Ok, sorry. I'm just…I'm glad to see you." Smoothing Arthur's sleeve down, Charles steps back, quiet. 

"Hey, I'm glad to see you too." Arthur smiles, giving Charles a gentle peck on the cheek as he squeezes through the door. 

And with a minute smile of his own, Charles shuts the door behind them, all as Arthur toes his boots off, gratefully sinking his weight into the couch, legs outstretched.

"How was the journey?" he asks, conversational. 

"Oh, not bad, a pretty straight run." Arthur replies, tipping his head back with a heavy sigh.

"That's good. I have chilli on the stove, it's still fresh, you want some?" Charles then calls over his shoulder. 

"I uhh…just a bite please."

Nodding, Charles heads to the kitchen and sets the dishes, before then padding over to the sofa. Settled together, he hands over Arthur's serving, tucking his hair into his shirt as he digs into his own. 

"Thanks Charles, smells delicious."

Caught between mouthfuls, Charles simply hums by ways of reply.

And Arthur, cautiously, as though prodding a hornets nest, takes a bite, and then another. Thankfully, it goes down relatively smooth, the meat soft, it breaks apart in his mouth. And although not particularly hungry, the meal warms him through nicely. Easing into a steady rhythm, Arthur gets about half-way before he admits defeat, setting the bowl aside.

"You had enough?" Charles glances over. 

"Huh? Oh yeah. I uh, I ate on the way here." he offers in explanation, lying shamelessly through his teeth. But too goddamn tired to feel suitably torn up about it, at least for now, Arthur sinks lower into the sofa, feeling a contentment to rival that of this morning, when he had woken with Charles by his side. Lord, it seems almost a lifetime ago now. And whether the meal, or the sturdy comfort of Charles' presence once again, Arthur finds his hold on consciousness to be an increasingly tenuous endeavour. Like an anchor, embarking on its steady voyage to the bottom of the ocean, there is no changing his course, no fighting against the water and its yearning embrace. So he doesn't. 

Eyes pulling in and out of focus now, Arthur's head knocks heavily into Charles' shoulder as he drifts deeper down, the impact, briefly knocking a kernel of lucidity loose from his addled brain, enough to apologise for encroaching on the man's space at least. 

"M'sorry, I…hm." mumbling, Arthur makes a concerted effort to drag himself up, only to fold back in on himself, a battered, old lawn chair. Already far too gone to even process Charles' tender answer, it drifts over him like smoke on the wind. 

"You're forgiven." Charles smiles lightly, "Sleep now, my love."

***

With Arthur having fallen to sleep so unceremoniously after dinner, Charles swiftly set to keeping himself busy in the interim, having gathered his woodworking supplies from the bedroom. 

It's been a few hours carving an as of yet, still indeterminate figure from out of a small, soft block. Not that it matters, whatever it's form may be, Charles is confident it will reveal itself with patience and with time, as it so often does for him. And even if it does not, there is no pressure. The tactile pleasure of wood carving is in a way, its own reward. 

Flexing his fingers, his hands starting to cramp for having been at it so long, Charles sets his tools down. Hands momentarily stilled from their work, he takes the opportunity to press the back of his palm lightly to Arthur's forehead, sighing, still too hot. 

Hopefully these scant few days of rest will be enough to recover some of his reserves, to give his body a chance at defeating this illness in earnest. And if not, well, once this job is done Charles has already decided he will march Arthur down to the doctors office himself, willing or not. 

In any case, at least for now Arthur seems to be dozing peacefully. For perhaps every half hour or so he has been wading in and out of consciousness, barely coherent each time he slips right back under within seconds. And of course with each time he rises, so does that stubborn cough, punctuating each rasping breath, piercing the silence, onerous and intrusive. And each time Charles can't help but wince at the sound of it. 

Sighing, he checks the time, it's ticking closer and closer to midnight. They should really get to bed soon. So, as much as Charles is want to regret it, he provides a gentle shake to Arthur's shoulder, rousing him from his slumber. 

"Hey, Arthur?" 

"Huh?" awaking with jolt and a sharp intake of breath, Arthur twists around, eyes bouncing around in his skull. Still half asleep, his mind dashing to the finish line, despite being two ticks behind the rest of him. "Where…aw shit, how long was I out?" 

"Just a few hours. It's almost midnight. I figured you might like to clean up, shower, before we call it a night."

"Sounds real fine, that does." Arthur rumbles. He leans forward, ironing out the crick in his neck, kneading two holes in his eyes, an attempt to banish the lingering grogginess from his person. Whilst Charles rubs slow circles into his back, hoping to dispel some of his discomfort. It seems to work, Arthur humming lowly in contentment. 

"Mm, feels real nice that does. A fella could get used to this kinda treatment."

"Good." Charles smiles, "But how about we get you in the shower first, and then you can get used to it in the comfort of an actual bed." 

"I reckon I like the sound of that." Arthur breathes out, heaving himself up with a grunt. And with a little more alertness behind his eyes now, he offers an arm up, both of them bumping into each other as Charles rises. Clasping to one another, they linger like that for a few moments. But whatever tension is between them dissipates quickly, neither man under the inclination to chase those kinds of desires right now. 

With a wry chuckle, Arthur makes to leave and Charles, suddenly remembering, calls out behind him,

"If you leave your shirt in the bathroom, I'll put it with a wash in the morning."

"Come again?"

"Your shirt, the blood on it? It needs washing silly." Charles clarifies. 

"Huh, yeah. I suppose…" Arthur mutters, unconvinced. 

"Wait, you're telling me you were just going to...leave it?" mortified, Charles waits for an objection, all in vain, stomach dropping as he realises Arthur is at least part way serious. 

"Well I mean, s'only a little bit! Thought it might add to my uhh…rugged charm." he defends. 

"Oh and if I told you to go sleep in the stalls with the horses, would that add to your rugged charm too, you ridiculous man?" Charles berates. 

"Ok, point taken." he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

"Uhuh. Now go wash, I'll be in the bedroom when you're done, ok?"

And with all the tact of a matronly orderly Charles steers Arthur to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

***

Getting changed out of his shirt for the night, Arthur turns to hang his shirt on the door, figuring that's at least somewhat more polite than just tossing it to the ground for Charles to find in the morning. 

He pauses. Eyes are drawn to the rusted stain on the sleeve, perturbed. He inspects the crease of his elbow, half expecting to see a little nick, something to explain where the blood had come from, he pulls up nothing. But where else would it have…and then the realisation dawns on him with a sickening velocity. The realisation that he's been coughing all day into that sleeve. That's it. The only logical explanation and yet Arthur's mind appeals for any other answer, anything to dispel the truth. 

Careening out of control, capsizing hard and fast into the frigid waters of unassailable terror, Arthur just manages to land himself awkwardly on the toilet seat with a clatter, legs turning to rubber.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Then Charles' distant voice carrying down the hallway, "You alright in there?" 

"M'fine!" Croaking out, Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, willing the moment to pass, willing Charles to just stay put. He counts up to ten, staying as quiet as he is able,  
until he is certain that he is in the clear.  
But the relief is short lived, now faced by the undivided force of his own panic. 

Breath hemorrhaging in his lungs, Arthur rams his head between his knees, hands clamped over his mouth and nose, trying to stifle the ratcheting gulps that are on the cusp of ripping right out of him. Terrified that Charles will hear, he frantically twists the shower on, the taps, everything. Praying that it will be enough to conceal the sound of him coming to pieces, down on the tiled bathroom floor. 

Because he can tell it is coming, he knows the drill. These attacks, whilst they are few and far between, he is well enough acquainted with them to have learned the signs, the steps his body takes to drive out his mind. To reduce him to a simple, reactionary vessel when rational thought has become too much to bear. 

He can feel it in his chest now, creeping down his limbs. As though his body has been strung up, squeezed into the narrow confines of a vacuum. It renders him immobile, forced simply to bear witness as the world folds in on itself until all that is left is the four walls surrounding him. Until all is left is the isolated sounds of his own breath tearing through his lips and the stuttering beat of his heart. 

Groaning, Arthur slides himself to the floor, clumsily flipping the toilet lid and burying his head into the bowl, convinced that he is going to throw up. The air turned thick by the steam, it coats his skin, wrapping its sticky fingers around his neck. And lungs heaving, Arthur desperately chases it, unable to swallow down each breath fast enough. Not that it matters, as if by some cruel joke, the precious oxygen is only to be blockaded by the unassailable muck clogging his lungs regardless. 

Panting, mouth hanging like a trap, Arthur leans further in, hoping gravity will help coax the infernal shit out. Strings of saliva gripping from his lower lip, he has long since passed the threshold of caring what he might look like. The thought of trying to cling to any kind of decorum at this moment, futile. Indeed, at this point about all he can muster, is holding his head high enough so as not to bash his jaw into the ceramic of the toilet. At least he will be spared the additional humiliation of biting a hole through his fucking tongue.

And then, fingers tightening, Arthur braces for the inevitable. He can feel it, his abdomen bucking restlessly now, the acid crawling up his throat. And all of it now vibrating towards a violent crescendo, finally, his seething stomach gives way. Like a clogged drain, it all comes gushing to the surface. Retching, Arthur throws up what little is left of his dinner down the toilet, spitting up the viscous phlegm alongside. And like that, the show is over. 

Gasping, he tips his head back, oxygen pouring down his throat, finally finding passage to his starved brain, all the way down to his cramping toes, Arthur greedily drinks it in for a good minute or two. Nothing else matters, not the acrid stench of his own vomit, the clammy sweat soaking his brow. So indescribably relieved to be expunged of the choking venom that had but a moment ago been asphyxiating him, Arthur now flops to a trembling heap, almost euphoric. 

And as the adrenaline wanes, the exhaustion starts to fill him instead, limbs heavy, blood turned to lead. However, it is a price that right now, he is more than willing to pay. Because, as with most panic attacks that he has experienced in his day, Arthur finds the ensuing fatigue anesthetizes any lingering anxiety quite well, lulling it to sleep for a blessed few hours. And that, well, it almost makes it worth it…almost. 

It's what allows him now, to quietly pick himself back up, to finish undressing and step into the warm water still pounding out of the showerhead. And it's what allows him later to carefully slide himself into bed next to Charles, to wrap his arms around him and to fall asleep once more, by his side. 

***

It's been a few days now, and whilst Charles has certainly treasured the time spent together, he can't help but notice that Arthur has been…subdued. 

Frequently dipping into pensive silences, it often takes Charles multiple attempts to drag him back to the surface and even then, he hasn't truly returned, only offering distracted half replies, vacant glances, before slipping back under. Not that Charles can blame him. Most likely plagued by the looming shadows of Dutch, this job and his ailing health besides.

Which is why for the most part, Charles has tried his best to just...let it lie. Holding his tongue when Arthur is scarcely able to finish a meal, or when he excuses himself without explanation to the bathroom all too frequently. 

But now, the day before he must leave, to set course and do as Dutch asked of him, hopefully for the last time, Charles feels the need to at least ask. To at least provide Arthur the chance to root out any of these worries, if he so needs. And with them both seated on the sofa, the TV just above a hum in the background, Charles decides it's as good a time as any. So, with what he hopes is an aireness, Charles looks over to Arthur and asks, 

"Something's wrong. What is it?" 

"Hm? Nothin'." Arthur's eyes still fixed in place, soaking up whatever mindless entertainment the television is pumping out. But Charles catches the pinch of his brow, the stilling of his body. It tells him to keep pushing. 

"Tell me." 

"Ain't nothing wrong, just leave it." Arthur mutters through his teeth, agitation creeping in his tone. 

"Is it the job?"

"Charles, just stop alright!" snapping now, Arthur looks him in the eye, sparks flying. 

"No, not until you tell me." eyes steady, Charels replies, undeterred. 

And caught, cornered by his unshaken demeanour, Arthur promptly deflates. Realising that Charles will not be taking no for an answer, and too weary to actually instigate a fight, he defers. 

"I…ok, it's the job, alright, happy?" 

"What about it?" Charles inquires. 

"Christ…I dunno!" hackles raised once more, evidently irked that Charles still refuses to take the hint, he spills out, "Just don't feel right, ok? Not used to working on nothing. Not knowing who the fuck I'm meeting, what the fuck I'm moving, where the fuck I'm taking it, nothing."

"Ok, I'll come with you."

"What in hell...no, you ain't comin', why would you come?" Arthur replies, dumbfounded. 

"You're worried about going into this alone, with no-one to back you up, you need help. So let me, let me help." Charles explains plainly. 

"Charles, look I appreciate the offer I do, but I can't let you come, it ain't safe." 

"Well all the more reason for me to come. Like you say it's not safe, and you're not well--" 

"I'm fine!" His words coming out far sharper than he'd intended, Arthur's eyes widen, face draining. But it's too late. 

"Don't you dare lie to me, you are not fine Arthur!" Voice ringing, Charles rebutes resoundingly clear, only just holding together the rupturing cracks of his composure. 

And like that, Arthur crumbles. 

"I…I'm sorry." Voice breaking, he swallows tightly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I know I'm not fine, I know I'm not." Breath bubbling, Arthur sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve.  
Whilst Charles, face softening, leans in, wrapping Arthur in a gentle hug. Simply relieved that after days of adamant denial that he's finally allowing himself this sorely needed show of vulnerability. And sure enough, as Arthur feels himself drawn in by Charles' gentle embrace, he is unable to hold it in any longer. Shoulders shaking he lets out a few ugly, wet sobs, hot tears sliding down his cheeks freely. He grips loosely to Charles' waist, fingers bunched in the loose fabric of his shirt, head buried in his shoulder. 

Christ, once again reduced to a snivelling wreck. He hasn't cried this much and this often in years, not since Eliza and Issac, and yet these days apparently even the slightest of provocations is enough to push him over the edge. 

Has he always been this fragile? The answer is unclear. He's always struggled with his emotions and giving them what they want. Never knowing how to satisfy them or to subdue them without resorting to violence against others or himself. 

At least acting in anger, is in some twisted way, productive. Chaotic and untamed, it leaves marks, it leaves scars. Destruction, its own kind of creation. Whereas shedding tears, in Arthur's mind, all it does is erode what is there, until nothing is left. It depletes his energy, his resolve, his self fucking respect, until all that remains is some grey and faded version of himself, all creased up and hung out to dry. 

That's how Arthur feels now. As though he's losing himself piece by piece, soon to be left with only the empty spaces where he once existed. Only then to be wholly consumed by the crushing presence of this sickness. For even now, it refuses to relinquish control. For even when he doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't speak of it, it still demands his undivided attention. Forcing him to take every effort in hiding it, in burying it where Charles will not see it. Seeking refuge behind closed doors, flushing blood spotted tissues down the toilet. 

That's perhaps what hurts most. Is the longing for comfort, for reassurances that he knows he cannot ask for. For what good would it do to tell Charles? There is nothing to be done, nothing either of them could do to make it better. And whilst Arthur does intend on keeping his promise, to go to the doctors once all this is over, there is no point in exposing it now, of this he is convinced. All it would do is cause even more pain, more wounds that cannot be healed. So instead, all Arthur says is, 

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…look I know this is serious, I do. But you see, that's why I can't afford to be thinking like that, least not right now. I can't afford to be distracted 'til this job is done, 'til I know it's all over." 

"I understand. I just wish you'd allow yourself to be helped, for once in your life Arthur. You don't have to do this alone." Charles replies, fatigue lacing his tone. 

And Arthur nodding mutely, bears the weight of those words close to his heart. Realising now, and perhaps all too late that this is just as much about Charles as it is about him. For any anxiety that he feels towards bringing Charles is surely felt in equal return by the man himself, at the prospect of allowing Arthur to depart on this trip alone and undefended.

And then, thinking back on his conversation with John, reflecting on his own penchant to give himself away in the name of helping others, when in fact it is for all the wrong reasons. Done in fear of losing the only part of himself he believed to be of value, and how for years all that has done is lay ground to frightful little seeds of animosity growing up inside of him. 

It's still hard to acknowledge, to recognise that his value to people extends far beyond what he provides, but it's not as hard as it once was. And part of learning to accept his own worth is also learning to accept help when it is offered. To accept it as what it is, not as a transaction, but as a show of support, of solidarity. Something that is willingly given, and something that can be gratefully received in turn, without the ties of guilt holding him down. 

So, as much as the suggestion still ties knots in his stomach, clearing his throat, Arthur grates out, 

"Ok, you can come. But Charles, I gotta insist, you don't go all the way. I'll drop you off before we reach the location. You wait for me and I come back for you when it's done. That's the only way this is happening." and shaking his head, he cuts off Charles' objections before they even arise, "An' before you start, you couldn't do the pickup with me anyways alright? Only I go in and only I go out, those have always been the terms. We both go in and we're both dead."

"Jesus, Arthur you make it sound like--" 

"--Sound like what? In case you forgot what we're doing here ain't exactly legal Charles." Panic edging into his voice now, Arthur pleads, "Look, just…please. Don't fight me on this. It's safer this way, an' it's better for me if I know you're safe, ok?" 

Grimacing, Charles can't say he's exactly a proponent of this arrangement, but it is surely better than nothing. And so, as much as every fibre of his being protests to the contrary, begrudgingly, he accepts.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prospect that he may now, never see Charles again striking like a dull axe in Arthur's chest. The realisation that he may never get to kiss those full bodied lips again, to never to look in his velvet brown eyes, to be carried away by the dulcet tones of his voice. Never to speak those precious three words. The words Arthur thinks of every moment that is spent in his company. The words that never quite fit in his mouth just right and yet they have sat on the tip of his tongue for months now. I love you.
> 
> ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello:) 
> 
> So, warnings for graphic descriptions of injury in this one, and pretty much for any chapters proceeding this one.
> 
> Other than that, to anyone still sticking around, thank you and best wishes, see you next time xx

The next day dawns just as any other, ambivalent towards both men's discernable trepidation. They leave in the early hours of morning, the first half of the journey, passing without incident. They find a suitable way point, and then all too soon Arthur is saying farewell, venturing onwards with Charles to remain behind in the comparative safety of a motel room. Naturally, their parting of ways was...hard. Lingering touches and hushed words. The both of them elaborating on each moment without purpose, just so that it might last a little longer. But of course, delaying the inevitable can only ever last so long, it still must end in goodbye.

Since then, it's been perhaps half an hour. Arthur having promptly set trail out onto the open road, his destination charted. Well, at least so he hopes. For the anonymous instructions he received via text this morning are to say the least, fucking useless. Infuriatingly opaque, eluding to trail markers and a whole bunch of other inane bullshit that seems entirely superfluous in Arthur's opinion, a simple set of coordinates would have sufficed. But regardless, he does as he's told. 

Pushing down his frustrations on the matter for now, he cracks the window just a finger. Trying to enjoy the drive at least, Arthur allows his eyes to roam freely amidst the sprawling landscape, venturing through the scrubby undergrowth and clusters of rocks, taking to the skies amongst the hawks and the buzzards. Mere pinpricks suspended in place. Impervious in their attendance, in their patient anticipation of prey. 

And back down on earth, on the inside his cab, well that's not so bad either. The dry heat working hard to thaw out Arthur's bones, not to mention dehydrating some of that cloying wetness in his lungs besides. Although one could argue that the dust kicked up by the road is just as bad as the sopping humidity of back home. Swings and roundabouts he supposes. 

Fingers drumming atop the wheel, itching for a cigarette to pass the time, Arthur sighs. He'd tossed his last pack when back at Charles', just on the off chance that his fool-ass would attempt smoking again, despite full-well knowing the consequences. 

Opting instead to flick on some music, Arthur's hand pauses. Squinting, his attention narrows in on an indistinct silhouette in the distance, waving him down through the blistering heat, beckoning him closer. Of course the motion is just an illusion, but it's vaguely unsettling nonetheless, as Arthur finally does drift past the landmark, a horse's skull mounted on a pike, it's empty eye sockets decisively holding his gaze, speaking to him of…something.

Jesus christ, what the hell has he gotten himself into this time. Hands tightening on the wheel, Arthur glances away, skin crawling. He checks his phone just to be sure, as if such a fucking bizzare harbinger could have been anything else but the first marker on this trail of breadcrumbs leading to his destination.

And sure enough, a few miles later he passes two more exhibits, both of them equally ominous in their design, the last one points to a worn dirt track, inviting him to turn off. Not that he needs the additional guidance any longer, Arthur can see what must surely be the location now, about as conspicuous as a diamond thrown into a sackful of coal. Whoever these clients are, they apparently have a penchant for theatricality he ruminates.

Dazzling in the sunlight, he draws closer. A city of glittering towers, jagged skyscrapers carved from steel. It's a scrap heap, larger than Arthur has ever seen. Awed, he pulls up cautiously to the entrance, letting his truck idle as he checks his phone once more, scanning through his messages, searching out the next directions to his quarry. 

Apparently it's to be found due south of the entrance there's a drop box in the cab of some old, once loved, now forgotten chevy. Bright red and so impossible to miss it says. Well that's good enough for him he supposes, the sooner he can get out of here and back to Charles the better. 

Stepping out into the beating heat, already sweating through his shirt, Arthur shields his eyes, dwarfed by his surroundings. Up close and personal it all suddenly doesn't seem quite so inspiring he decides. Walled in by stacks upon stacks of detritus, disfigured metal carcasses all piled atop one another, it feels as though he's set foot into an impenetrable maze, either that or a graveyard. Indeed, as he wanders father and father in, Arthur is convinced he could easily get swallowed whole by this place and no one would be any the wiser. Just another lost and broken thing to find its end on the heap, he ponders morbidly. 

***

It takes a good long while for him to get a lay of it, the near identical passages and junctions leading him decisively away from his destination. But, after turning back on a few dead ends, Arthur finally finds the spot. The looming corridor he's been walking down, gradually receding, pulling back to reveal a kind of open enclosure. Lined up to one side are a few trailers, offices presumably, a compactor and some open shipping containers and then there, sure enough, directly across from him, stands his prize. Admittedly, the old girl is a sight for sore eyes. The once gleaming chrome trim, now tarnished with years of rust, the cherry red paint, cracked and faded from baking in the sun. But fitting the description well enough Arthur feels pretty safe in his assumption. So, stepping out into the open, he crosses the distance to the far side. 

It takes longer than he would like, and with nothing to now shield him from the unbearable heat, Arthur buckles under the weight of it, chin tucked in, hair hanging lank in his eyes. He absently wishes that he'd brought his hat, fucking idiot that he is, left it on the passenger side in the truck. No matter, doggedly now, he pushes forward, desperate for it to be done, it's just a few feet left to go, almost reaching distance...and then he halts. 

Arthur can't say he's entirely sure why, but calling it intuition, he takes a moment to inspect his surroundings, eyeing up the chevy, taking a glance back over his shoulder. Something feels off about all of this, it's too quiet, too staged. It sits in the air, stagnant. Licking his lips, Arthur rests his hand loosely on his gun. But nothing happens, no one leaps out, it's still just him, his shadow and the chevy, full of god knows what, guns, drugs--

Cresting atop one of towers of scrap, a flash of movement catches Arthur's eye, and like that, the world is ripped out from under him. His body yanked taught, like a fish on a line. Seconds or years pass, in that moment they're both one and the same, all Arthur knows for certain is that he collapses to the ground, paralysed.

Confused, he feels a hard pressure thumping through his side, similar to that of being pelted hard and square by a baseball. It elicits a welting, aching kind of pain. Not intolerable, but still a fucking thorn in his side. Awkwardly, laid flat out on his back now, Arthur twists his head, eyes bulging with the sheer effort of it. His gaze tugged down, drawn to the source of his discomfort. 

Blood.

Dumbly, Arthur watches it pool to the ground, watches as it gets greedily sucked up, feeding the parched earth. And he keeps watching, fascinated. Not yet connecting it to himself, his mind a muddled slurry of adrenaline and as of right now, still incomprehensible pain. 

His side feels sticky and hot. 

Blinking, Arthur tries to twist his head again, but this time the whole world lurches along with it. Fuck. Biting down on the nausea, Arthur waits for the wooziness to subside. And deliberately motionless, he lets his eyes roam about inside his skull, attempting to piece together what the hell just happened. As if it could be that easy, everything having now turned white. The sun in its unfathomable cruelty, electing to take his sight, bleaching the world of colour, wiping it down, a blank slate.Terrified, Arthur scrabbles blindly for something, anything to tether himself to, but there's nothing. Seemingly, only the weight of the ground pressing up on his back is real, tangible. That and the thumping pain in his side. 

And then, something catches his sight. What appears to be some blurred appendages, carelessly tossed to the edges of his periphery. Presumably a hand...his hand. At least the fleshy mass twitches as though it is attached to him, which right now, well...it's good enough. And so, with an insurmountable effort, Arthur drags his arm, dull and unwieldy, through the dirt. Managing to slap it to his torso, clamping its weight down on the now sodden mess of his shirt as best he can. 

Panting, he squints down his nose, attempting to inch his hand closer, but its impossible. Everything soaked through and greasier than an oil slick, his fingers grapple uselessly for purchase. And so, with a grunt, he abandons the effort, allowing his arm to fall slack once more. 

Whining in distress now, still unable to discern how or why this has happened, Arthur forgets himself and attempts to get up. Straining, he rocks his body back and forth until the momentum sends him tipping over with a solid thump.

And that's when the pain tears through him. The peeling crack of a whip. His body snaps to attention, spine arching, limbs seizing and bunching inwards, all as though he has been electrified. It's like…it's like someone has bored a hole into his abdomen, to then pour molten lead inside. It's excruciating, he can feel, fuck, he can smell his insides burning, melting and spilling out of him, hot, red and wet. 

Writhing in place, spit frothing at the corners of his mouth, Arthur claws at his shirt, snarling as he struggles to tug it over his quivering stomach. With a final yank, he manages to reveal the bare skin, to reveal an oozing crater nestled just below his ribs, above his hips. 

What the fuck. Vision tunneling, reeling back, the realisation finally presents itself to him. He's been shot, he's been shot--

Then, jolted out of his mindless ramblings Arthur dimly recognises the dull timbre of voices bickering in the distance. 

"Oh fuck, we got 'im!" 

"Aye, that we did."

"Finally, we have Van der Linde by the balls, dumb fucker won't know what's hit 'im!" 

"Alright, quit yer faffin', we still gotta bag cowboy up, an' preferably 'fore the bastard bleeds out all o'er the place. Colm wants 'im alive remember?"

"Christ, you ain't gonna let me 'ave this? feckin' sour sack o' shit ain't ya?" 

"Oh lay off Niall, jus' get off your backside an' help me with 'im alright?" 

"Yeah…yeah, alright."

Blinking, Arthur barely processes any of it. Eyes staring empty, into the flat blue expanse of the sky, his thoughts drifting, vacuous and disordered. 

He realises he's crying. The tears welling in the corners of his eyes, tracking down his temples, soaking into his hairline. 

His thoughts then pull him towards Charles. A wayward ship tugged towards the shore, summoned by the beacon of light that is him. Indeed, as the true gravity of his situation begins to take hold, he realises there may as well be an ocean separating them, for Arthur can't imagine ever finding his way back now. Can't imagine a scenario that ends in him escaping this place alive. So hopelessly lost in these churning waters, his body to be claimed by it's roiling depths. Undoubtedly as penance for ever having dared to fall for a man so fine in the first place. 

He wonders then, what Charles is doing at this very moment. Is he taking this time to indulge in a quiet walk, or perhaps to complete that intricate little wood carving Arthur has watched him slowly bring to life these past few days? Is he thinking of Arthur, as Arthur is thinking of him? And will he think of Arthur, when the minutes surely turn to hours, the hours to days, days to weeks? Will he search, and will it be in vain? Living the rest of his life never having turned up the truth, left only to wonder whatever became of him, all whilst Arthur's body wastes to nothing, whilst his bones lay forever entombed within this wretched cradle of metal? 

More tears leak out, his eyes burn. The prospect that he may now, never see Charles again striking like a dull axe in his chest. The realisation that he may never get to kiss those full bodied lips again, to never to look in his velvet brown eyes, to be carried away by the dulcet tones of his voice. Never to speak those precious three words. The words Arthur thinks of every moment that is spent in his company. The words that never quite fit in his mouth just right and yet they have sat on the tip of his tongue for months now. I love you. He should have said them this morning, last night, the week before, the month before that. Every opportunity he had he should have said them, to shower Charles seamlessly in the declarations of his adoration. 

Lord, Arthur wishes for it so hard as to conjure Charles right here and now. All so he might at least try and rectify such a heinous misdemeanour if it's the last thing he does. But perhaps most of all, and selfishly at that, Arthur wishes Charles was here if only just to save him this one last time. As he has done countless times before, with his soft smiles and his patient words. For it seems no matter how lost Arthur is, Charles is always there to find him again. But not this time. 

Not this time. 

The words, they repeat over and over, falling apart as soon as he mind utters them, a fervid mantra, it's meaning already having become all but lost. But then, new meaning rises from the mire. An ailing flame that Arthur breathes to life. 

Not this time. 

Not this time will he give up, will he accept that this is some kind or retribution, the debts of his past coming due. No, he refuses to let it end like this. To die in this fucking pit. He will fight tooth and nail for his life, for each and every moment longer that may be spent in Charles' company. For any pain he can endure, any hardship, any cruelty, if only to see him once more. 

Consumed now, by this new and brazen resolve, Arthur lunges onto his stomach, scraping himself forward on hands and knees, near gagging from the pain each jostling movement incites. But he doesn't stop, he can't stop. 

Vision pounding in and out of focus, by some miracle, Arthur manages to keep ahold of his grip on consciousness in his search for some kind of weapon. 

And there, he catches a glint on polished metal, his gun. It must have fallen out in the commotion. Arthur wriggles towards it, with an urgency now, jaw clenched, eyes bursting from the sheer intensity of it all. He can hear the pace pick up behind him, the disembodied voices drawing closer, shouting back and forth, they must have realised his intent by now. Fingers stuck with blood, he fumbles for the familiar pearl grip, laboriously wrapping his finger around the trigger. 

And then he stops. 

Realising he'll need to play this just right to bear any chance of escaping. Arthur forces himself to think, to wrack what little is left of his brain for some kind of plan. 

Splayed on his stomach, practically pride of place in this open arena, it's far from ideal. His best shot will be to down all of his assailants in one go then, as with no cover, no protection he won't be permitted any second chances. Any false moves, any stragglers and he is sure to be put down without hesitation. 

He hears more scuffing from behind. Panic ramping up, there's no time to devise a more robust plan, so Arthur does the only thing he can. Feigning unconsciousness, he turns limp, just hoping to god they fall for it. 

Ears pricked, he hears one set of footsteps, the dry crunch of boots. One eye cracked, he catches a smudgy figure on his left side, lingering. And then a voice announces itself further from behind, 

"Hey what's going on o'ver there, why ain't he movin'?" 

"Oh would you shut ya trap for one minute, I'm tryna look!" the closer voice bellows in exasperation. 

The boots draw close, one of them gives him a firm kick to his bloodied side. Whilst Arthur laying deathly still, silently bites through his tongue, eyes streaming as he attempts to quash the screams bottled inside of him. 

The sun then blots out, the figure looming over. Rough hands scoop him up and with a short grunt, flip Arthur on his back. 

"Ah shit."

"What, what is it Mac?" the other voice, eagerly approaching. 

"The fucker's dead. Seems pretty boy Morgan ain't up to takin' a hit like he used to." the voice sighs. 

"Fuck me. Colm ain't gonna be happy 'bout this Mac."

"Yeah, you don't say? Christ...well come on then, help me move 'im." 

And with Mac, who to Arthur's ears is presumably the leader of this little outfit, deeming it safe to approach, the other figure, Niall scurries close, joining in looking him over. 

"Shit, he fuckin' looks a corspe an' all! The hell is wrong with 'im, he sick or something?" 

"Well not anymore he ain't." Mac states rather succinctly. 

"Aye, ain't that the truth. Fuck knows why Van der Linde was still keeping 'im around, reckon we did 'im a service, putting the ol' dog out of his misery."

"Well, y'know how Dutch is with his pets. Likes 'em loyal. And Morgan, he is, well was, Dutch's most faithful, least 'cording to Colm." 

"Christ ain't that fuckin' depressing.  
Can you imagine spending ya whole life pining after that oily fucker, only for it to end like this, fuckin' pathetic really."

"S'almost enough to make you feel sorry for him." 

"Nah, dumb bastard had it comin' to 'im."

And Arthur, sweating bullets, sensing his window of time is fast drawing to a close, kicks out hard, managing to land one of them in the shin, his target goes toppling over, with a shriek. 

"Ach, what the fuck! You said he was dead Mac--" 

But his last words are cut short. Arthur shoots him point blank, the bullet pops through his eye with a spatter. Blood dribbling down his face, Niall folds to the ground. 

"Oh you piece o' shite, you're finished Morgan!" Roaring, Mac pulls his own gun, side stepping Niall's crumpled corpse, he aims. But again too late. He is met with Arthur pumping out every single last shot, riddling the man with holes like a swiss cheese. 

And only then, in the ensuing silence, satisfied that Mac has joined his counterpart's journey into the afterlife, does Arthur relax. He releases the gun with a clatter, laughing to himself weakly. 

But his relief is short lived. Gulping now, twitching like a landed fish, Arthur shimmies about, kicking up a flurry of dust in a desperate attempt to right himself, to jump start the frayed connections between his brain and his body. As he does, sucking in lungfuls of grit and debris, each frenzied intake just agitates his lungs further, choking and abrasive, like hot sand being forcibly poured down his throat. 

Curling inwards, there's not much he can do to fight it, Arthur devolves into an onslaught of hacking, wet coughs. They rake through his body, stoking the hole in his abdomen like a white hot poker. Sufficient enough agony that his vision once again fails, an aperture squeezing shut. It's impossible to tell how long it lasts, how long he lays there besieged by his own body. Hours, days, centuries? However long it may or may not be bears little significance. Thrown inside a bottomless hole, Arthur has no sense of time or of place, nothing at all to hold onto. 

And then, in the yawning darkness pinpoints of light begin to puncture the fog. The midday sun observing him from high above, it's unblinking gaze bores down, illuminating the abyss. Groaning through parched lips, a string of unintelligible nonsense tumbles out of his mouth and Arthur leans on trembling arms, to spit up a viscid glob of blood and mucus, scrunching his nose in disgust at the sight of it. 

Several minutes more and finally, Arthur wills himself to stand. Hawling himself upright with all the lumbering grace of a bull elk. Teetering precariously, the ground veers sharply as his blood pressure plummets, heart fighting desperately against the unrelenting pull of gravity, to push oxygen back to his brain. Ears buzzing, his head teeming with fruit flies, it takes Arthur several more moments before the sensation passes and he feels confident enough in his ability to step forward. 

***

Eventually, he falls into an uncomfortable rhythm, his torso pitching with each movement, it's best attempt to alleviate the strain placed on his ravaged side, Arthur drags himself forward over and over. Unbearably cumbersome as it is, his boots sink unevenly with each step, as though trudging through wet cement. But somehow he does it, by sheer force of will Arthur navigates his way out, relocating the entrance, where his truck is still waiting faithfully for him to return. 

Shuffling forward, Arthur bodily lands into the hood, and clinging to it like some kind of limpet, he awkwardly gropes his way around the drivers side, swinging the door open so that he can then hawl himself in. 

His body sags into the seat, gratefully indulging in the reprieve that it offers. And then, despite the fatigue gnawing down on him, the beguiling urge to just close his eyes and disappear into unconsciousness, Arthur readies himself for perhaps the worst yet, tending his wound.

And at least vaguely aware of the ticking clock, the encroaching deadline of his own demise if he doesn't fucking deal with this, Arthur wastes no time. Fingers numb, he clutches at the placket of his shirt, wrenching the buttons loose with a short grunt to expose his glistening chest. 

Glimpsing down, it's a wretched affair. A mess of half clotted blood, thick as jelly. Strings of it slide down his body, tarlike, soaking through the waistband of his jeans, the material already turning stiff. 

Gritting his teeth, he fumbles for a bottle of water in the glove box, sloppily emptying the contents over the wound, gulping down some for himself. And then, trembling, he scrunches up his sleeve cuff, dabbing lightly at the area, attempting to shift some of the caked on grime, so that he can at least get a better look at what he's facing. 

Stomach lurching, it's difficult to truly comprehend. 

A gaping ravine, the shot slices through his skin like dulled shears through cotton. The edges ragged, fatty tissue bursting through, like a toy whose seams have split, his stuffing erupting from the fissure. 

It must have been a rifle. It's the only explanation for such catastrophic damage, and it would explain why the O'driscolls selected this particular location as the stage for their ambush. They had probably been scoping him out the entire time, using the scrap as cover. He should have trusted his gut, he fucking new this job was hokey, even from the start. He should have just refused, but God forbid he have a mind of his own or even just a sense of self fucking preservation. He's lucky the marksman was such a poor shot. The bullet grazed him, clipping into the soft meat of his torso, had it actually penetrated Arthur is certain he would be dead. 

In any case, Arthur knows there's not much to be done in terms of closing the wound right now. The best he can do is likely to cover it, to keep pressure there in hope that it prevents any further blood loss. And so, painstakingly, he squirms out of his soiled shirt, tearing a few strips and balling them up to use as packing. He then gingerly presses the wad into the crevice, the physical intrusion causing him to retch, fingers curling, his eyes squeezing shut. 

Once it passes, Arthur then uses the remainder of the shirt as a bandage. Awkwardly looping it around his torso, cinching it as tight as his threshold will allow, and even then he has to bite down on the gut wrenching cry surging within, a perennial deluge, seeking to burst the banks, to wipe Arthur out from existence. 

Panting hard and fast from the exertion, fighting the dreaded urge to cough, Arthur fumbles for his phone, he's got to warn Charles. 

Holding it up to his nose, Arthur whines in frustration. None of the buttons make sense. Any attempt to focus on the keypad only encourages it to rearrange itself all the more, the characters swirling in and out of focus at whim, as though playing some tawdry game. Arthur promptly gives up, allowing the lump of plastic to slip between his fingers, it bounces to the floor, useless.

Instead, he grapples for his jacket, zips it over his bared chest. He's shivering. Teeth chattering, he lunges for his hat, nestles it low over his eyes. That'll have to do. Hopefully he'll pass well enough as at least a vague impersonation of a human being. And with that, Arthur juggles with his keys, jamming them clumsily into the ignition, he turns the engine and goes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So lost in his thoughts as he is, Charles almost doesn't hear the light rapping from outside. But he does, and like a bolt, he rushes to unchain the lock, not even caring to check the peephole before wrenching the door open. The shrouded figure in the doorway remains still, unresponsive, filling the empty frame. And then, much like a leak sprung from a dam, the body comes surging forwards, and before Charles has time to so much as react it collapses into his arms, limp as a ragdoll.
> 
> It's Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey:)
> 
> So again, more warnings for description of physical injury.
> 
> More thoughts at the end of this chapter, I'm not sure if anyone finds it interesting or not, but...shrugs. 
> 
> Best wishes to all and see you later xx

Charles checks the time for what feels like the hundredth time. It's 12am. Arthur should have been back twice over by now. He checks his phone obsessively, nothing. 

He feels like he's losing his mind. He's barely holding on, a plywood door standing tall against the raging might of a house fire. It's only a matter of time before the lashing flames win out, before he cracks under the heat and it all comes pouring in. And perhaps what is worse, there is nothing he can do but wait. With no word from Arthur, no indication as to how long he might take, or what exactly would tip him over schedule this severely, Charles is left only to think of each and every eventuality that could have befallen him, left to conjure up any multitude of dreadful realities. 

Perhaps his cellphone had simply run out of battery, or he had simply got caught in traffic, both plausible explanations, and yet unsatisfactory to Charles' tunneling mind, it digs deeper and deeper, each imagined scenario it unearths to be increasingly nightmarish in its potential to exist. What if instead Arthur had been pulled over by the law, arrested, detained to precede a lifetime of imprisonment. Or what if the job just went bad, a lethal shootout, he could have been taken captive, tortured. He could very well already be dead. 

So lost in his thoughts as he is, Charles almost doesn't hear the light rapping from outside. But he does, and like a bolt, he rushes to unchain the lock, not even caring to check the peephole before wrenching the door open. The shrouded figure in the doorway remains still, unresponsive, filling the empty frame. And then, much like a leak sprung from a dam, the body comes surging forwards, and before Charles has time to so much as react it collapses into his arms, limp as a ragdoll. 

It's Arthur. 

Gasping from bearing the entire weight of him, Charles awkwardly grapples around his back, jostling for a firmer grip. Immediately he smells blood, it bites the back of his throat, combined with the stench of sweat, sour and astringent. Heaving them both across the room, Charles manages to deposit Arthur onto the bed, he lays there far too still, far too quiet. Fraught, for a moment all Charles can do is just stand there, dumb. Arthur doesn't even look alive. His skin grey and sweating, almost translucent. His veins branching vivid as ink under the surface, he's clearly lost blood, a lot of it. 

Searching out the source, Charles notices then the blackened stain spread from the hip of his jeans down, that would it explain it. Whatever it is, surely concealed under his jacket. And yet still Charles does not move. Incapable of tearing his gaze away, of reaching over and touching, for fear that as soon as he does the fragile illusion will break, that life will simply cease to exist within him, chased away, evaporating like smoke between clasped fingertips. 

So he watches, watches as though his life depends on it, as though both of theirs does. Despite the dim voice of rationality reminding Charles of the fact that his inaction is actually procuring the opposite. Every moment spent not working to save his life, indirectly killing him. 

Arthur then coughs abruptly, briefly animated, his chest lifts as though snagged on a hook, before dropping with a soft thump, unmoving as the dead once more. Brief as it is, it is enough to spur Charles into action, to reconnect him to reality, as much as he longs to remain removed from it. And with an almost disorienting lucidity now, he lays out the bare bones of a plan.  
First and foremost, he needs a first aid kit, then towels, blankets, all objects that will likely be found at the reception. So, without space for thought, Charles leaves, sprinting across the parking lot. Guided by the fluorescent glow emanating from the main entrance, a moth to a flame. 

And on the precipice, he catches himself reflected in the double doors, unkempt, wild. So he takes a precious moment, to still his mind and his heart before entering, for even he knows, even without context given to Arthur's current state, inviting scrutiny is the last thing either of them needs right now. And with Arthur incompacitated as he is, Charles cannot know whether all this was a premeditated act, an attempted execution, or the result of something just going dreadfully awry. Not that it matters particularly. For whatever the circumstances, Charles refuses to take any risk, to advertise their location to any remaining perpetrators, to unwittingly announce to the world that the job remains undone, that Arthur is still alive and kicking, at least for now. So, as much as his body craves to give in, to yield to the frenetic energy, the ravaging distress that escalates with each moment wasted not spent in the fight to save Arthur's life, Charles does not. Tempering himself, he steps inside. Walking up to the desk with diligent restraint. 

It's vacant. Heart pounding, Charles wipes his palms down on his pants, rings the bell. He waits for what seems an eternity, and then finally a stout middle aged woman appears from the ether. She has wiry short hair, a soft face, round and dimpled as a peach. And her voice is much the same, light and syrupy, almost lyrical. 

"Well hey there hun, how can I help you, is ever'thing to your liking?" 

A simple question, benign, and yet Charles is left frozen in the face of it. Finding himself to be rapidly overwhelmed by the task of existing in the presence of another person, of behaving as if everything is perfectly ordinary when it is in fact a hair trigger away from catastrophic disaster. 

Still waiting for a response, the woman frowns, uneasy. And Charles, he barely even registers what comes next. For his body energetically leaps forwards, taking the lead, entirely unprompted. Behaving as if an onlooker to some impending accident. Reflexive, it acts with the single minded intent to shield Charles from himself, to temporarily spare him from the burden of existing in this moment, the impossibility of holding himself together.Transforming him into someone he barely even recognises, congenial, loquacious, absolutely not to be suspected of anything in any way, of course. And this stranger, so eager to please, to put on a little song and dance, so that Charles can safely return to Arthur's side unscathed, unspools a winding tale with disarming ease. 

Emphasising emphatically that yes, everything is fine ma'am, that he hates to be a bother but he'll be needing a first aid kit right away. See, his friend took a tumble in the tub. The poor man being such a klutz, slipped right on the shower curtain whilst shaving and cut his arm up something dreadful. Then, defly assuaging any qualms, he reassures that she needn't panic, it's absolutely no cause for concern. Joking that the fool might have knocked loose a few brain cells in the process, but there'll otherwise be no lasting damage. And rounding it all off by apologetically requesting for a handful of spare towels, seeing as in the commotion theirs all got soaked through. 

And the woman well, she seems appropriately convinced, for she promptly excuses herself, bustling away out of sight for a minute or two, she returns flushed, a stack of towels and first aid kit in hand. 

"Alright, there you go darlin'. Now we got an icebox just round the corner, y'know if your friend needs it for his arm. And you just come right back down if you need anything else alright? I'm here all night."

To which Charles replies genuinely, but nevertheless notably rushed now. Itching to get back. 

"Thank you, I will."

And as soon as he's out of sight, without hesitation, Charles bolts, dashing across the parking lot, back to their room. 

***

Door locked and shades closed, Charles lets out a ragged sigh. Head pressed to the wood. He glances over, Arthur still exactly where he left him, unconscious. It does little to bolster his confidence, but perhaps it is for the best this way. As Arthur being cognisant through the course of tending his wound would be a fate undeniably worse than the present alternative, and one that Charles selfishly, would rather not bear witness to. So, setting down his supplies, he washes up, ties back his hair and sets to work. 

With Arthur not even stirring, Charles manages to remove his jacket, easing it off his shoulders with a reverential care. He sets it to one side, it may yet be salvageable. His pants too, come off, bagged up to be disposed of later. And now, stripped just to his underwear, Charles can clearly see the lay of things. Arthur's botched attempt at tending to his wound, the rudimentary bandage, crafted with the remains of what must have been his shirt. Barely recognisable, torn to shreds and saturated in blood.

Grimacing, Charles grabs the precision scissors from the first aid kit. It's hard to even know where to begin. He starts by trimming the rags, carefully snipping at the crude covering, peeling it away as gently as he is able. He then mops up the spilled blood with a damp towel, dabbing and rinsing, over and over, until scrubbed pink, the worst of it is gone. And even then, rusted flecks of it still cling to his skin, like a layer of dried paint, crusted and dull, but Charles has reached his limit. No longer able to stand the sound of Arthur yelping like a kicked dog at each and every touch, he decides that it'll have to do. Indeed, the startling pain of contact, it must jar him into some kind of awareness, for Arthur starts to squirm, mumbling unintelligibly. And not unlike an animal, in his delirium, he doesn't seem to realise that Charles is helping him. No matter any assurances, Arthur continues to whimper, weakly pushing his hands away. Begging him to stop. 

It tears Charles' heart in two to play a part in. To be the cause of Arthur's pain, despite knowing that it is a necessary hurt, one that will ultimately save him. Vision wobbling treacherously now, Charles swallows down on it tightly, refusing to succumb to the uncouth tyrany of tears just yet. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Refocusing, it takes everything he has to maintain focus, to keep his hands steady. He finally manages to uncover the last of the wound, using some tweezers to remove the sodden scraps Arthur had used to pack it with. 

It's a monstrous sight to behold. Stripping away the surface reveals a terrible and gaping maw. It's only about a finger long, but the depth of it…it's horrifying. His skin has been split open, ruptured, like an overcooked sausage, his casing has burst, to reveal fatty tissue and muscle. The meat of him spilling out, with nowhere else to go. Charles has to resist the urge to vomit. 

The bullet, for that is surely what caused this, has raked through his skin, leaving the edges raw and weeping, marked by tiny perforations which extend beyond the wound itself, branching, like barbs from a feather. Charles loosely remembers this as something to do with the kinetic energy of a projectile, a phenomenon that occurs when the impact is so forceful that it has no choice but to dissipate outwards in addition to inwards, essentially in every direction possible. 

A rifle wound then, it has to be. 

He's heard stories about injuries inflicted by these kinds of weapons, none of them good. Capable of causing catastrophic internal damage, the bullet travels at such a velocity it can sheer muscle and fat like a hot knife through butter. And the impact itself, like dynamite blasting open a miners tunnel. The shot creating an explosive wave of pressure, wilfully forcing open a new cavity from inside the body. The impacted tissue is compelled outwards, only for it to immediately cave in on itself, becoming irreparably damaged in the process. A terrestrial supernova, condemned to implode from the moment of its birth.

Frankly, it's a miracle Arthur is still breathing.

Although perhaps even that is tempting fate to say. For each breath could very well be his last, as Charles watches him struggle. Panting erratically, chest heaving from the sheer exertion of being alive. Blood, even now, still lethargically squeezing out of him. But again, there is no time to properly process any of it. And loathe to waste even another second, Charles starts immediately by cleaning it, flushing it out as thoroughly as he can with clean water.

The results of his efforts are…questionable, much of the detritus entrenched far deeper than Charles had first anticipated. Stomach sinking, realising that perhaps a more direct approach may be in order, he reaches for the tweezers. Cautiously, he rests his palm atop Arthur's hip, bracing it. Charles then pulls the skin down to give some tension, and with an uneasy frown pressed on his brow, he works to pry away the lingering debris, dirt, stray threads from Arthur's shirt, fused to his bruised skin. 

Nudging at one particularly stubborn fragment lodged inside, Charles reacts all too late, only just flinching out of Arthur's path as he lurches awake, hurtling into consciousness, a detonated missile. Eyes wide, he bellows in agony, guttural and raw. Charles curses, swiftly clamping his hand over Arthur's mouth, hoping to God that no one hears. Thankfully, Arthur he slips right back into unconsciousness as though nothing had even happened and after a few strained minutes, Charles deems it safe to continue. Although, at this point, he has removed as much as he dares, so with a broken finality, he wipes down the wound once more, this time with an antiseptic wipe, doing all that he can to stave off infection. 

And next, well Charles knows that the wound is in no state to be stitched, at least not yet. The internal damage needs time mend, to rebuild before it can be sealed shut. So instead, he carefully packs it with gauze. Hands shaking, painted red, he then covers the wound with a large adhesive dressing and finally, finally, he allows himself to fall apart. 

***

It's near morning now, the horizon marbled in rich pink, the first bands of the sun's warmth cast in broad strokes, painting the parking lot in gold buttery light. Soaking it up, Charles lights another cigarette. Pressing it to his lips, chasing down the warmth hungrily. 

Tired. Eyes heavy, stinging in the aftermath of so many shed tears, Charles had decided on stepping out perhaps half an hour ago. Satisfied that Arthur, locked deep in sleep would not feel the lack of his presence too acutely, at least for a brief spell. Part of him chafes, eager to have eyes on Arthur at all times, but then Charles has also come to accept within these last few afflicted hours, that not everything can be controlled. He has done all that he can, and for now, that will have to be enough. 

He is reminded then, of his mother. How as just a boy she taught him the lesson of fortitude, the importance, the integrity of quiet strength. The ability to be flexible in the face of life's greatest adversities, not to fight or to win, but simply to survive.

He remembers how it had been the morning after a particularly malevolent storm. All night long Charles had been trembling in her sure embrace, convinced that the world would fall down upon them. But it didn't. The morning came, the howling winds lowered their guard, and they had survived the night without a scratch. 

Then, later that day they had been walking along the river and she pointed out two trees to Charles, asking him to tell the difference. Confused, he had offered no answer, merely clung to her leg with a greater ferocity, scared to be reprimanded as he might have been by his father. But of course she just smiled patiently, and pointed it out. She told him to look at the small tree, a young willow, bent over harshly in the winds, but how nevertheless it remained intact. She then pointed to the proud oak further down, rigid and strong and yet it had fractured in several places, the trunk split, its branches snapped in two. 

Her lesson being that physical strength is deceptive. Sometimes internal strength, resilience and flexibility can be far fiercer in the face of an impossible opponent. 

How yes, the storm had been scary last night, but fear did not make it go away. Together they had survived it, and they likely would again, in spite of any fear they both held. She told him how one day, Charles would have to face his fears alone, to come to terms with that, to be brave as she knew he could be. 

Then they had returned home, spent a night by the fire, together in their warmth, swaddled by the rich expanse of the clear night sky. 

That lesson amongst countless others she had imparted upon him during their short time together. But this one in particular has always held a place close in Charles' heart. Perhaps most of all because it was truly the last lesson she ever gave to him. For in her sickness she became fortitude. Each day, facing her assailant with courage and grace, adapting to each blow it dealt her, never once accepting defeat until the very end. And yet despite all that, it is still the lesson Charles struggles with the most. He wonders if she would be disappointed in that, in him. Does it even matter, when it is only Charles, disappointed in himself? 

For even into adulthood he has always deferred to shows of physical fortitude. To present himself as impassive, immovable to the world, just as that old oak. And much the same, he has suffered for it. Forced to bear the scars, sometimes quite literally, he thinks to the cracked fissures splayed across his cheek. And what good has any of it done? It has just left him a brittle shell, allowing the fear and the anxiety to easily bleed through, as it has been doing all the more frequently these days, with Arthur. And he's not blinded to the sight of history repeating itself, of watching someone he holds dear fade from existence, to become a dying light. And that in itself is enough to send him spiralling into the depths of inconsolable grief and doubt. 

But this time he can at least choose how to face it, although even Charles is not quite sure what that means. Perhaps it really is just a matter of letting go. Not of the love he holds, or even the fear or the pain. But rather letting go of his tight reigned grip on it all. To let it exist, to breathe, to speak of it to others, as opposed to bottling it within, only for it to later erupt from under the trampling pressure. 

Cigarette, long since burnt to a stub, Charles crushes it underfoot. They'll have to move soon if they want to dodge any peeping eyes, any questions. 

Sighing, scrubbing his face with calloused palms, he returns to their room, his impromptu little operating theatre. The stench of sickness, it's palpable. But with Arthur still out, Charles decides to utilise the time to his advantage. From cleaning everything down to disposing of the soiled towels and garments, burying them within the depths of a dumpster towards the rear of the property, hoping that there they will remain. He wipes down every surface, straightens every pillow, and with nothing left but to do but wake Arthur from his slumber, Charles does just that. 

His eyes flit open with a start, impulsive, Arthur attempts to sit up but a firm hand paired with a wrenching pain in his side stops him quite effectively. Vision swimming and tongue heavy, he squints up at him. 

"...Charles?" 

"Hush, you're safe now. Just rest, don't talk." 

But these words fall on death ears. Like the flick of a breaker, cognisance has already sparked to life, and it now rushes fitfully to the surface, demanding of answers. And Arthur, his mounting distress evident, struggles under Charles' palm, desperate to piece it all together, grasping frantically to fill the gaping holes in his memory. 

"I don't...Where 'm I? What's goin' on?" 

"We're at the motel. You were running a job, you…got shot." Charles responds, slowly, carefully, gauging his response. 

And Arthur frowns, eyes lost. He deliberates his next move, still tensed as though he might yet attempt to bolt, jaw working as he struggles to reconcile it all within his mind. But evidently, stringing together any of it, Charles' words, the gasping pain in his side, is impossible right now. His mind slowed to a crawl, conjuring each thought takes an age. As though wading through molasses, a fly trapped in honey. Each attempt is just sucked up and absorbed by the the sticky tar oozing inside his head. 

And Charles seems to understand this, for he doesn't press the point. Instead, moving on, he explains gently, "Don't worry, it's ok. But we have to move, it's not safe here."

Arthur nods distractedly. Then without warning attempts to get up again, seemingly already having forgotten how poorly it went the last time. And Charles in his surprise, just manages to intervene, hand once again pressed to his chest, 

"Hey, hey, easy cowboy. Look, I think I remember seeing a wheelchair by the front entrance. I'll fetch it, but I need you to stay here ok? Just stay put for me, you understand?" A laden pause and then, 

"...Sure, gotcha." his reply slurred, pupils blown out, it does little to abate Charles' malcontent. Casting a dubious look, he rises and Arthur, much to Charles' relief stays good to his word. 

"Alright, I won't be long, just stay here…please." he urges. And with that, Charles turns for the door and leaves. 

Stepping out, he scans the parking lot, checks windows for signs of activity, but all is still. At least he needn't worry over crossing paths with any early birds this morning. Nodding now, somewhat reassured, Charles jogs to the front, and sure enough, awaiting him, is their ticket out of here. 

A ramshackle wheelchair, left carelessly abandoned by the entrance of the lobby. Either forgotten by some previous tenant or a meager attempt by the purveyors of this establishment to provide some form of accessibility, Charles can't say. Not that it matters, he is simply grateful for its presence, for that and the fact that this particular motel sits all on one story, so mercifully, stairs will not be an obstacle they'll need to overcome.

Again checking for any signs of life, and again greeted with silence, Charles grabs the handles and sets off. The front wheel skittering mindlessly out of time with its counterparts, it clatters against the asphalt, as Charles marches the pathetic thing forwards, manoeuvring it into their room. And now, with the two pieces of this delicate puzzle placed side by side, Charles is confronted with the monumental task of somehow slotting their fragile parts together. Gritting his teeth, there is going to be no easy way of doing this, but then, he has no choice. Neither of them do. 

Approaching lightly, he brushes the flat of his hand against Arthur's cheek. Far too hot. 

"Hey, Arthur? Can you hear me?" 

With his eyes closed, a stilted nod is Arthur's only reply. It's something, at least. Encouraged, Charles ploughs onwards, "I'm going to move you ok? It's going to be…unpleasant. So I need you to work with me Arthur, and let me know if it becomes too much." 

And in the interest of just ripping the band aid off, acting without hesitation, so as not to prolong Arthur's suffering, Charles braces one arm behind his torso, careful to avoid his wounded side. Then, he scoops his legs up from under the knees in one smooth motion, and lifts him up and out. A braying moan rips out from Arthur's throat in response, his grip on Charles constricting bruisingly tight, he ignores it. Grunting, from the exertion, Arthur is about as cooperative as a sack of flour. But nevertheless, Charles works as swiftly as he can manage, and soon enough has him planted safely down. 

Both of them are panting by the end of it, but indisputably, Arthur is the worse for wear. Slumped awkwardly, his body buckles under the weight of itself, his right side fiercely over compensating for the lacking strength in his left. Breath short, shallow, Arthur's gaze rolls lazily over, his eyes finding difficulty in focusing on one subject for any length of time, flickering erratically like a candle at the end of its wick. 

Cautious, face pinched, Charles asks, "How was that, are you ok?" 

Arthur throws him a perishing look. He looks awful. Any lingering colour has since drained from his face, overshadowed by a pallid veneer, not unlike a blanched vegetable, sweated and wilting, pitiable. 

"Alive." 

Charles nods weakly, too overwrought to voice the words, the bludgeoning truth of the matter. Arthur may yet make it out alive. And they both seem to recognise those ill-fated words unspoken, heavy in the air. For Arthur attempts to smile, an inept puppeteer pulling on his strings, the illusion of vitality, it falls achingly flat. But with not much else that can be said, Charles, gives Arthur a sober touch on the shoulder, before gathering their things and instigating their tawdry procession across the carpark, to the truck. 

Having procured any remaining comforts from the room, blankets, towels, cushions, Charles now sets them out in the passenger side of the cab, absently straightening out any creases, any lumps, scrupulous in his efforts, obsessive. It's entirely inconsequential, Charles knows this, as if a few fluffed pillows is really going to alleviate the insufferable pain Arthur is currently enduring. But it's the only constructive outlet for his distress right now, and it beats screaming he supposes, or beating his fists bloody, the kind of directionless, destructive catharsis he so desperately yearns for right now. 

Shaking his head, dispelling such thoughts, Charles reclines the threadbare seat as far as it allows. And again he stops, assessing exactly how he will orchestrate this. With the cab being a good foot higher than Arthur's current arrangement, whatever his approach, it's going to be hell getting him in. 

Gaze flicking down to Arthur, Charles then realises that along the way he must have lost his tentative hold on consciousness, for his face slack, undisturbed. It could almost be considered peaceful if not for the glaring evidence to the contrary. It's probably for the best he muses. Lifting Arthur's listless arm to rest over his shoulders, Charles then proceeds to lift him once more. Straining, for an ill fated moment Charles fears he might fall, Arthur's torpid body, doing its damndest to drag them both down to the ground. But by some miracle, Charles manages to correct himself, squeezing Arthur in. He leans over to buckle his seat belt, tucking his legs neatly under the dashboard. And with Arthur secured, Charles heads for the drivers side. 

His stomach sinks…keys. 

Searching top and bottom with a mounting desperation, Charles halts. No, that would be…he flips down the sun visor, and they jingle merrily into his lap. Smiling weakly, he could almost weep in relief. But instead, he turns the ignition, the truck shudders to life, and Charles takes to the road. 

***

Having needed to stop for fuel at about half way, Charles had pulled into a gas station a few moments ago. Not intending to linger, in case anyone might deem it their place to question why he has what looks to be the reheated corpse of a man sitting shotgun beside him. Charles is just about to exit when he hears a faint buzzing from inside the cab.Aimlessly, he paws around, searching out the source. Finally locating it, tucked under the driver's seat. It's Arthur's phone. Multiple missed calls, from Dutch, Hosea, even John. 

Charles stares blankly at the screen. Detached, he picks up and slowly places the receiver to his ear, waiting for the caller to announce themselves. It's John. 

"Arthur? Stop dicking about, are you there?"

"It's Charles."

A pause. And then, notably subdued, fumbling to rectify his misstep, John replies, "Oh uh…shit, I mean sorry Charles. I, is Arthur with you? He ain't been picking up, he's got everyone pretty riled up."

Charles remains silent. Quite unable to regulate the flurry of emotions now whipping up inside him. Oh they're worried are they? And where was this concern a few days ago, hm? Where was it weeks before that, months? At what point would they have all deemed it in their best interests to feel worry for Arthur? And now, what does it even matter? As if their concern will stitch back Arthur back together, as if hollowed words will replace all that he has lost. And as if Charles will ever be able to convey the horror of the present moment, of the past few hours. To impress upon them the insufferable pain that comes with witnessing such a grievous injury inflicted to the only person that matters in this life. 

Then John pipes up, entirely oblivious,  
"Hey, is uh…everythin' alright?"

And Charles in his anguish, doesn't entertain any niceties, refusing to embellish or to dilute the blow. He swings down, blunt as a battle axe, stating simply, 

"He's been shot."

Silence buzzes down the line and then quick as wildfire, John catches on. 

"Wait, what? What d'you mean he's been shot? Charles, what the fuck? Is he--

Tether snapping, Charles interrupts. Tone measured, his fury honed into a belligerent blade, he has no patience for any of this right now, nor any desire to hold John's hand. 

"I don't know. He hasn't yet woken long enough to tell me what happened and he may yet stop waking all together. All I can assume is that the job went wrong, or that perhaps it was an ambush from the start. I have to go John. I'll let you know if anything changes." And like that, Charles cuts the line dead. 

Feeling a vague sense of guilt for being needlessly cruel, Charles sighs heavily. Not much he can do about it now. The thing is, he knows deep in his gut the others, Abbie and Hosea, John, they do care for Arthur, deeply. Just as he knows this news will be a fatal blow to them all, once it is passed along. But it still doesn't negate the fact that in this moment, he must bear this burden alone, that Arthur's life rests solely on his shoulders.

And now Charles must also carry the weight of their expectations, their hopes and fears all now intrinsically tied to Arthur's fate as well. For he doubts he would ever be truly forgiven if Arthur was to die under his care. How could they ever forgive? And how could they not turn to resentment either? In the knowledge that Charles was the only one to have shared in Arthur's last moments, all despite having barely known the man for but a quarter of the time the rest of them have. 

In the end, all he can do is hope, hope to god that Arthur pulls through. And in the event that he doesn't…well then to hope that the loss of him won't signify the end for Charles himself. That he'll learn to live on, to find peace with it, in time. 

With such thoughts still swirling in his mind, numb, Charles exits the cab, fills the gas tank and carries on. The rest of their journey, still stretching out before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried to add some more to Charles' side this chapter, poking into his past a little bit more, specifically with his mother. I plan to add to his relationship with his father probably sometime in the next chapter or two. Hopefully it is character, at least in the way that I have written him. 
> 
> I've largely been going off that one campfire interaction when Charles speaks openly about himself, I'm sure it's online somewhere. It's very sad. His life, his perception of his place in this world seems so uncertain. That's why I've kind have leaned into giving him anxious tendacies. I feel like under that cool and collected surface is surely an iceberg of confusion and doubt. 
> 
> His struggle is an internal one much like Arthur's, but instead of good<->bad, a stuggle of conflict, one or the other, for Charles it is more so a struggle of bringing himself together, reconciling the pieces of himself, at least to me. 
> 
> It seems very much that his connection with his mother, with her culture is something he treasures and values, but with his father, not so much. And I'm hoping to explore that more as part of this, and how he might later come to accept both these sides of himself in some kind of way.
> 
> ...phew, alright, rant over.
> 
> See ya xx


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the minutes stretch to hours, hours to days, it seems to Charles that perhaps there is cause for hope. Whilst Arthur's condition is indisputably dire, he still clings to life with an inexorable and frankly astonishing doggedness. And Charles, unmoving in his resolve, his determination to fight this battle alongside Arthur in equal measure, has taken it upon himself to do everything he can to ensure his survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this one is essentially half of one chapter I ended up splitting, since it was getting way too long.
> 
> This first part is little different in that there is quite a lot of time skipping in order to cover the bases of Arthur's recovery.
> 
> Warnings again for description of physical injury, and brief references to prostitution.

It's been a few days following their return to Charles' cabin. Arthur is still alive at least, although fever clearly claims him. 

Since arriving back, Charles has spoken to both John and Hosea, it helped a little. Whilst neither man can lend their aid directly and this was at Charles' bequest, it is a reassurance nonetheless to know both are waiting in the wings so to speak, prepared to do whatever they can to aid Arthur's recovery if and when needed. 

Naturally, they both had, in their ways, kicked up a stink when confronted with Charles' abject refusal to permit any visits. But he didn't budge, knowing all too well that Arthur would be mortified to find out such a thing had occurred, that they had been allowed to see him as he is, at his very worst. And once Charles had explained this, both men had grudgingly accepted, but only on the concession that they would visit once Arthur's condition stabilises, irregardless of the man's wishes or not. A fair enough compromise, to which Charles agreed. 

Alongside this they had also discussed the matter of Arthur's care. And unfortunately they had all agreed upon the same ultimatum. That for now, taking him to the hospital is simply out of the question. For it would undoubtedly invite the scrutiny of the authorities, any law abiding physician duty bound to inform the police of injuries related to firearms. And this alone would bring the whole proverbial house of cards tumbling down, likely leading to Arthur's incarceration. It is not a risk any of them could stomach taking, even despite Arthur's desperate need for professional care.

In the end they had decided he would go to the hospital only at Charles' discretion, if it had truly reached a point that he believed could not be turned back from. They had both expressed their faith in Charles, that he would make the right call. At the time, it had certainly been validating, for them to entrust him with this duty, and yet it is a terrible burden all the same. 

But, as the minutes stretch to hours, hours to days, it seems to Charles that perhaps there is cause for hope. Whilst Arthur's condition is indisputably dire, he still clings to life with an inexorable and frankly astonishing doggedness. And Charles, unmoving in his resolve, his determination to fight this battle alongside Arthur in equal measure, has taken it upon himself to do everything he can to ensure his survival. Certainly, with repetition, he has found a rhythm to it all, this new way of things. Every minute of the day observed with utmost care, a mechanical precision.

For each morning Charles changes Arthur's dressing, measures his temperature, encourages him to swallow down a few pills when it pushes close to forty. He then sits vigil for as long as he is able. Occupying the long hours with various activities. Often reading aloud, in hopes that his voice may permeate the thick fog currently enshrouding Arthur's conscious mind, tethering his body to the bed. Sometimes Charles will play harmonica with the same intent, to fill the room with his presence, to let Arthur know, he is not alone, even if he is unaware of it. And when Arthur does rarely resurface, barely lucid, Charles will unashamedly take the opportunity to ply him with water mixed with sugar and salt, to replace what he continually loses in sweat. 

And in the end, that is all he can do really. For Charles has long since given up in any attempt to converse. There's no reasoning with Arthur in this state, he realises that. Indeed, it's become a kind or repetitious ritual, when he does wake, a race against the clock. Each time, he peels from out of the gates, a thrust into the dark, violent in its trajectory. And each time conscious thought yearns to pull tight, but with nothing substantive to chase, more often than not, the chord falls slack and Arthur tumbles back into abyss almost as soon as he's released from it. Either that or his mind just spins in circles, rambling deliriously, he recites some unintelligible mantra, mumbling names Charles has never heard him speak, Eliza, Issac. Perhaps they mean something to him, perhaps they do not. 

Now appears to be such a time, for as if on cue, Arthur stirs. Sweat soaked hair plastered to his forehead, his brow furrows, a feeble whimper escaping his lips. And as always, Charles leans forward, attentive. Prepared to listen to whatever nonsense will come spilling out of his mouth, simply relieved that he is still breathing, still speaking. And sure enough, proceeding a few laboured wheezes his eyelids flutter open. 

"Charles?" 

"Hey, I'm here, you're ok."

"I...where?" gulping, Arthur's eyes flit fearfully, unable to fully comprehend the reality they have been presented with. 

"We're at my cabin, you're safe." Charles placates. And this having been their most comprehensible conversation to date, he briskly pushes it forwards, eager to do so before their window of time snaps shut, "Hey, what's the last thing you remember, can you tell me?"

And Arthur frowns. retreating inwards, evidently traversing through the muddled landscape of his own mind, dutifully inspecting each landmark, each gaping crater, attempting to recall what once stood there. It takes him so long that Charles resorts to giving his hand a gentle squeeze, hoping to pull him back out from the labyrinth he has unwittingly wandered into. And absentmindedly squeezing his hand in return, Arthur does reply, slowly, voice cracking from disuse. 

"...Was with you. Got to the job…but it didn't, I didn't…I think I got hurt. They was waitin' for me, Colm's boys. An' then…I don' know, don't remember." 

Face contorting he clearly struggles with it. Lucid enough to recognise that he is lacking entire days of his life and yet unable to dredge up the pieces no matter how hard he tries. It's evidently causing him distress, so Charles swiftly steps in,

"Hey, it's ok, don't worry about it. Just rest now, ok." 

But already, Charles' words just slide right off him, insubstantial and unacknowledged. For Arthur is already held within the clutches of oblivion once more, returning to whatever place he finds himself when drifting in between these loose states of consciousness. 

***

It's a few more days before Arthur returns much further into this world. Until each waking moment holds some kind of purchase in his mind. And even then, any moment of clarity is often rendered tainted by concurrently existing alongside any number of half-formed nightmares. Impossible to disentangle from one another, his mind instead weaves these mismatched fragments together, in a well meant attempt to uncover some greater meaning from it all.

Although, the mutated truth it fabricates is undoubtedly far more disturbing than the sum of its parts. For it forms a hideous, and indecipherable tapestry. A monstrous chimera, constructed of misremembered truths, forgotten memories, buried fears. An aberrant medley, never meant to exist, it torments Arthur mercilessly. And then, it is all only expedited by the fever, the ravaging blaze vibrating in his skull, it's perturbing resonance, causing his mind to drip, like hot wax out of his ears.

In such moments, he'll wake soaked through and exhausted. Consumed by an implacable fear, a sense of failure for not having understood the purpose of such unfathomable apparitions in the first place. Writhing in distress, he'll resort to kicking feebly at the tangle of blankets clinging to him, for even their meager touch is too much to bear. The surface of his skin hypersensitive, the weave grating against him like sandpaper, it makes him want to crawl out of himself, to bite his tongue in two, to pull at each fingernail until they slide right off, curling like pencil shavings, as they drop to the floor.

But then, Charles is always there to stop him. Pressing a cold towel to his forehead, whispering gentle reassurances. Sometimes, although Arthur could be mistaken, he even hears the rich and lilting melodies of a harmonica fill the room, and that he treasures. For it soothes that indescribable itch spectacularly, replacing it with something good and pure. Distracting him from the hammering pain in his side, that and the licking fire in his lungs. 

***

A little longer and Arthur can even manage to prop himself up for a scant few moments or so. Enough for him to swallow down snatched mouthfuls of whatever meal Charles provides him. A simple victory, it certainly beats being spoon fed, spluttering to choke down each bite, having Charles mop at his dribbling chin like he's a fucking child. But then, it's a double edged blade in many ways. The trickling return of his cognisance unearthing plenty of bitter truths that Arthur must now try and swallow. Each miniscule accomplishment yielding ten more obstacles that he had yet to even realise obstructed his path. 

The awkward reality of relieving himself for one. Still unable to stand, Charles must carry him each and every time to the bathroom. There's not enough room for them both between it's walls, so Charles will dutifully wait outside until Arthur is done. And never once does he complain, does he express any kind of revulsion or disdain for being forced to literally help a grown man use the toilet. A silent kindness Arthur is unspeakably grateful for, even though it does very little to ease his own discomfort, the plaguing shame and embarrassment of it all. 

***

And then, as the days stretch to weeks, with Arthur pronounced to be provisionally 'out of the woods' comes other kinds of difficulties he too must learn to overcome. 

With Charles' constant presence no longer a necessity, and unable to justify his absence to his employers any longer, he returned back to work. Which leaves Arthur in the awkward position of being alone with his thoughts, not an enviable position to be in, by any counts. 

He'll try reading every now and then but it's a thankless task. He still has trouble focusing for extended periods of time. His ailing stamina not only extending to his physical capacity but apparently his mental as well. Attempting to hold onto entire written phrases, paragraphs even, usually just results in a boiling headache and a fair amount of frustration on his part. 

There's the television, which Arthur would usually never abide, at least back when he was in good health. The prospect of sitting on his rump staring into the box all day long seeming a punishment more than anything. But, with little choice in the matter now, forcibly imprisoned by his own body, Arthur tries to at least enjoy it to some capacity. 

Indeed, his tolerance of the dreadful thing increased markedly when Charles managed to find a channel specifically and exclusively airing nature documentaries. The wonders of the natural world, something Arthur can always take unapologetic pleasure in witnessing, well for the most part. For apparently even such joy is to be tainted by this fucking mess he's landed himself in. 

Watching the various critters in their natural habitats, packs of wolves loping across the tundra, tracking their prey for miles on end, a mother doe and her young exploring the wilds, it all only serves to remind Arthur of his own entrapment, his own incapacity to do any of that, to exist in the world beyond these walls, outside of this bed. And even despite Charles' constant praise, his genuine excitement at each new milestone Arthur crosses, it leaves a sour taste, only reminding Arthur just how much farther is left to go. Christ, he still can't even stand unaided, walking still far from out of his reach. 

The gunshot at least is healing well enough, despite the near constant pain, and despite the fact he still can't stand to look at it. Turning his head to one side each time that Charles cleans it, redresses it. It'll leave an unsightly scar that much is for certain, even Charles and his kind words can't paint over that glaring truth. But with the infection mostly stamped out, reducing his fever to a low simmer, it does seem that a future is in the cards for him yet, even if the hand he has been dealt is particularly unlucky.

In any case, all Arthur can say with certainty, it's that if being bed bound has taught him one thing and one thing alone, it is that recovery is a cruel mistress. 

Now stranded in the aftermath, the ordeal has left him weaker than a fledgling bird, his body having devoured itself quite zealously in order to survive. And that cough, well it has firmly taken root now. Arthur tries his best to swallow it down in Charles' company. The poor man already has enough occupying his mind right now. And Charles has already voiced his concerns on the matter, that the coughing could well be a sign of a deeper trauma. Perhaps that the bullet, unbeknownst to either of them has caused internal damage, and all this time it has been covertly wreaking havoc, tearing up Arthur's innards from within. It's entirely possible, but if that is to be the case, well…it's pretty much a death sentence, they both know this. And regardless, it doesn't explain away the coughing or the indeed blood from before all this transpired Arthur ponders privately. 

In any case, for now, he just does his best to keep a lid on it, and with Charles out the house for most of the day, it's the one thing right now, that is relatively easy in his life. Because it is getting worse, Arthur knows this. Even whilst laying flat on his back, breathing just doesn't come easy anymore. The mild taxation of sitting up alone is enough to make his heart pound, to put a stopper in his chest, leaving him bursting for breath.

It's an unpleasant sensation, one he cannot easily describe. As though he is drowning above water, as though there are two weights, one chained to each lung, making the effort of simply inhaling and exhaling comparable to pushing a boulder up a mountain. And then the coughing. Each time he is overcome, each time he is compelled to hack and gag and spit out the vile fluid it leaves his vision spotting, his side lighting up, freshly ignited, as though he has been shot all over again. 

And of course who could fucking forget the star of the show, the gunshot, the goddamn hole in his abdomen. The pain, a sledgehammer pounding into his side without pause, or perhaps a dull hacksaw would be a better comparison. For with each movement it bites through his flesh, tugging and tearing. Not enough to finish the job, to slice through him cleanly, he's left to exist in the pitiable state in between, a half felled tree, neither living nor dead. And in the space left behind, the sprawling canyon between his hip and his ribs, the rest of Arthur just crumbles right into it. Like a black hole, the wound is a singularity that his body is compelled to gravitate towards, all of him converging around that single point. It causes him to feel permanently lopsided, which ends up affecting his balance, making his head slosh every time he moves. He can barely keep any food down, which in turn just serves to waste his already scarce reserves even further. 

It's cruel really. As though a holistic decision Arthur's body has seemingly come to in his absence, that annihilation is somehow the only solution, the only way to permanently silence the pain. And sometimes…well, sometimes, on the bad days Arthur longs for it. Which in itself hurts to even acknowledge. For he fought so hard for this, to survive, to return from the brink, and for what? To just become a perpetual burden to the man who has only ever shown him kindness, to waste everyone's time by dragging out this crawling death? To suffer each and every moment, to never be his whole self again? 

Such thoughts...they are fast becoming the only kind to exist within Arthur's mind. Pressing down, much like the physical pain, they engulf everything else that once mattered to him. 

The weight of them, unbearable. Arthur cannot stand to face them alone, and yet what other choice does he have? He refuses to inflict this, himself and his misery upon anyone else if he can help it. It's bad enough forcing Charles through it, an immense and perpetual source of guilt for Arthur as it is. So why in hell would he open this door to anyone else? 

It's why in part he still refuses to acknowledge either John or Hosea. That and even if they did come, Arthur wouldn't know how to…be around them. Christ, holding together the tattered edges of his own self is a gargantuan task alone and that is without a captive audience to behold his struggle. 

Not that Arthur's deliberate cloistering of himself has abetted their efforts. And once Arthur had first seen the stacks of missed calls and messages left for him by John, Hosea, Abigail…Dutch, instead of answering he had rather promptly gutted his cell phone, throwing it to the bedside draw, so that it could rot in there. Even now, still it is there, and still Arthur will occasionally feel sickened by his own disproportionate reaction to their concern, but each time he forces it down, convincing himself that it is for the best. They know that he is alive, and for now, that'll just have to be enough. And as for Dutch in all this…well he isn't even remotely equipped to tackle that pit of vipers right now. So he doesn't. 

Sighing, Arthur glances at the clock, not even fucking midday. But sufficiently fatigued with the labours of conscious thought, he settles himself down anyway, closes his eyes and sleeps. 

***

Another week passes. Almost a month now and it's honestly impossible to tell if he's made any lasting progress.

The wound is slowly sealing itself. Forming a grotesque and cankerous scab. Arthur despises it, longs to tear it right off. Not only for its unsightliness but also for the discomfort it brings. Like a congregation of ants around a pool of honey, the sensation of his flesh knitting together gnaws at him, sticky, itchy. 

Asides from that, the only discernible change to things being that he'd started using the wheelchair Charles 'procured' from the motel. Arthur can just about slide himself into it unaided, meaning that he now has the run of the cabin, even when Charles is out. Still it is humiliating, and still Arthur needs Charles to lift him out, to deposit him back into bed when the day is done, but Arthur supposes he should be thankful. For it has expanded his narrow plain of existence, has provided him with a sliver of much sought after independence. And at least he can enjoy the simple dignity of wheeling himself out onto the porch, or even just eating a meal at the table now. 

Indeed, Charles has deemed it to have been a roaring success, he tells Arthur as much at every opportunity. And eager to keep pushing, to ride on the coat-tails of each and every advancement, he soon broaches the topic of standing, of walking to Arthur, convinced that it is time to make such a leap. And his unadulterated excitement at the prospect is, Arthur has to admit, somewhat contagious, so he agrees to it. 

Of course he won't lie, he's anxious over it, terrified of failing at something so simple, of proving his own unassailable fears to be true. But Arthur also feels a cautious hope. For if he succeeds, if he walks even a step forward, it would be enough to convince him that a return to normalcy, in some capacity, is within his grasp. And that, well that is worth taking a gamble on, no matter the odds he decides. 

***

The fated day arrives soon enough, perhaps too soon. Charles having gotten the weekend off work and Arthur…well by his own admission 'as ready as he'll ever be.' They'd spent the first hours of morning just relaxing, catching up on the day to day, benign enough activities that helped to ease the anxiety gnawing in his gut. But, as the clock ticks on both men come to a point in deciding that it would be best to just get it over with. 

And so, with no time like the present, Arthur awkwardly scoots himself to the edge of the bed, baring his teeth through the snagging pain. He takes a moment to gather some breath and with a tight lipped nod, signals that he is ready. And Charles, planted firmly to his good side, sturdy as a tree, states somberly, 

"Ok, I'm going to have my arm around you just in case, you sure you want to do this?" 

"Sure." Arthur grits out, positive that uttering even another syllable would cause him to lose his resolve, to vomit his guts out all over the floor. Apparently something in his expression reads to that, for Charles gives him a fretful look, arm hovering behind him in uncertainty. But Arthur swallows, firmer now, saying, "S'ok, just let's get it done...please."

Another look, one of plaintive acceptance. Then, Arthur can feel Charles' arm snake around his back and with that as his cue, Arthur rocks himself forward on to trembling legs, leaning over heavily, knees knocking as he strains to lift himself. He manages a brief second of clearance, all before his legs buckle, and gasping, his torso tips over, careening out of control, only then to then be pulled taut. Charles' arm, firm as corded rope, he compensates fiercely, bridging the weakness, all but carrying Arthur the rest of the way. 

And there they stand, swaying. Arthur clinging to Charles like a life preserver, legs boneless, refusing to hold his weight, torso shredding at the seams. The vertigo, grueling, it refuses to subside, it surges in his gut, turns his brain to soup. 

"Charles…" jaw clenched, Arthur moans, begging, pleading for it to be over. 

"I've got you Arthur, I've got you. Just breathe, in and out, ok, nice and easy."

"Charles, I can't see, dammit I can't--" 

Hyperventilating, air whistling through his teeth, tearing through his throat, it's like there's a belt wrapped around his chest, each feeble attempt to suck in a breath just chinches it a notch tighter. Panic holds Arthur tight in her vice then, as his vision starts to spot, his hands fumble blindly for purchase, scrabbling at Charles' shirt, numb. But it doesn't matter, none of it matters. With the plug pulled, Arthur slumps bodily into Charles, and he collapses.

***

He wakes laying down, dazed and trembling. His complexion grey, damp and tacky like freshly unsoiled clay. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, working overtime to pump oxygen back through his veins. Head spiralling, pitching mercilessly, Arthur swallows several times before summoning the will to open his eyes, to confront his surroundings. But he does, summoned by Charles' frantic voice. 

"Arthur! Can you hear me? Can you--" 

But the voice stops. Charles seeing that Arthur is indeed awake, his brow scrunched, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. "Oh Arthur…I'm so sorry." Charles whispers. But it's not enough, no words could ever be enough to assuage how clearly this failure has broken him. How thoroughly it has dismantled what little and fragile faith in himself he had left. But nevertheless, he tries, "We just tried too soon, that is all. Don't you give up on this Arthur. I promise, you will walk again and I'll be there with you, for every step. It's not your fault ok, I pushed you too hard, too soon--" 

"Jus' hush please...please stop talkin'." it's barely audible and yet it stops Charles with the momentum of a freight train. And in the silence, Arthur turns laboriously onto his side, away from Charles. Curled in on himself, a few sopping coughs leaching from his body. 

"...I wanna be alone, please." he rasps. 

"I...of course." 

Holding his breath, Arthur waits to hear the door click lightly shut, and with a shuddering grasp, he lets go, sobbing. 

He longs for Charles. Already hating himself for turning the man away, for spitting on his kindness, his willingness to do just about anything to try and help. Hating himself for spoiling everything, failing to be better, to do better.

Fuck, he doesn't know how to exist like this. How is he meant to be, when he can't do anything? What is the point? He can't even be happy in the company of the one person who knows him better than anybody, who has stood by him through all of this, can't even bear to face his family through his own cowardice. Too scared to be looked upon by them as he is, as though he is some kind of exhibition, some revolting spectacle. Arthur can only imagine what he must look like, he hasn't looked at his reflection once since returning. A habit he adopted without thought, and now so ingrained, it has bred a ridiculous kind of fear of the act, of what he might find when he finally does force himself to step in front of the mirror. 

As if he doesn't already know what he will see, an ugly, pathetic excuse for a man. All of his insecurities, old and new conflated to form this wretched portrait of himself. His hair long past his shoulders, beard a wiry nest, by this point having consumed most of his face. He hates it, hates having the fucking thing attached to him, but he daren't lose it, for what to might reveal if he does, because Arthur knows he's lost weight. Skinny as a rake, last time it got this bad was many years ago, those dreadful last few months before Dutch and Hosea took him in. But at least then, he still possessed the charms of youth, it had even worked in his favour on occasion. Some folks attracted to that kind of waif like androgyny, willing to pay good money for it. And back then, Arthur hadn't been picky, too naive or simply too desperate to care. But it sickens him to look back on now, to be desired for that, to be compared to a fine china doll, cooed at like a kitten, doted on for his big pretty eyes. 

Grimacing, least he needn't worry about that now. Washed up, thirty something years old, he wears those years on his face quite evidently. Skin aged from being out in the sun, the undeniable crows feet nested comfortably around his eyes, teeth yellowed from countless cigarettes. Ain't no-one calling him pretty. Hell, the last person who did was that fella from that bar fight, and he likely won't be calling anyone anything again. 

Honestly, it's a miracle Charles sees anything in him worth his attention. How could he? How can he not look upon Arthur and see only a hindrance, an affliction he has been forced to endure despite never having asked for it. He doesn't know. None of it makes any sense, for all the effort he goes to tormenting himself over it.

Whining, breath bubbling in his throat, Arthur sniffles, clearing his throat, scrubbing at his eyes. Tired of crying, tired of thinking, tired of hurting. So much so that he doesn't even try to fight it when the fatigue beckons him closer. Just accepts the invitation with gratitude, and fades to black. 

***

Left to his own, Charles is beset by the unfamiliar sense of feeling lost within his own home. And with nothing to do, nowhere to currently be that isn't by Arthur's side, he decides to excuse himself to the porch for an hour or two. Hoping that the fresh air will in some way, act to clear his head.

The thing is, Charles understands why Arthur dismissed him. He understands that it is not personal, not that this knowledge makes it any less painful. He knows that some kinds of grief need to be witnessed alone. Raw and untamed, only to be sated by a total collapse of oneself. For only then, in the rubble can the act of rebuilding become possible. 

Yet despite this, Charles still longs to open that door, to reassert his presence, to remind Arthur that he is not alone. But what good would it do? It's not the truth, not really. For he cannot miraculously make Arthur's hurts disappear, can not alleviate the physical pain nor the psychological, cannot shoulder them himself. All he can offer are words. Inane bouquets, hollow approbations, pretty but entirely lacking in substance. If anything he's likely just treading on any legitimate show of compassion, of empathy. Merely glossing over the tribulations Arthur must suffer though daily, entirely invalidating to the pain he bears. 

And Charles doesn't know the answer. He doubts there even is one. So instead he waits. Simply waits for Arthur to be ready for him. Just hoping that it'll be sooner, rather than later.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles smiles. He's missed this. He's missed this Arthur. His gentle nature, his disarming perceptiveness. His ability to unearth goodness, to nurture it out of almost anything.
> 
> Gently shifting so that they're now side by side, Charles leans in, careful not to jostle Arthur too much. Head rested lightly on his shoulder, eyes closed, Charles just allows himself to be. To breathe it in, to lose himself in the beat of Arthur's heart, the rise and fall of his chest, decidedly ignoring how it hitches oh so slightly. And barely audible, he murmurs, to himself mostly,
> 
> "I thought I had lost you. I've missed you."
> 
> And Arthur, possessing some inkling to the full meaning of those words, draws Charles in closer and replies simply, "I know darlin'. I missed you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello:)
> 
> So a lil bit of angst, hopefully a lil bit of fluff too, since theres going to be a big storm coming. 
> 
> Hope everyone is well and I just want to say a heartfelt thank you for the comments I have received, it really means the world xx

Another week marches dutifully onwards. The air turning cooler, darker with each passing day, summer setting in towards her months long slumber. 

And yet it feels like nothing has changed. For both of them remain trapped at this impasse, the weight of defeat, lingering still. Arthur especially, he swings on a capricious pendulum of emotion, his demeanor unpredictable. Despondent, entirely listless one moment, enflamed as a firecracker the next. It's unsustainable, they both know this. A constricting bottleneck, it'll end up suffocating them both if they're not careful.

And sure enough, one morning, something in Arthur just snaps, Charles can't say what or why. Can only say that whatever it is, it cracks down with the reckless spontaneity of an avalanche. 

"I want to try again."

A loaded pause. Charles continues dressing, and replies, "...What's that?" 

"Walkin'. I want to try again." Arthur says, resolute, unyielding. 

"...I don't know if it would be wise, not so soon after--"

"Don't matter." he butts in. 

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" shirt half buttoned, Charles turns to him, incredulous. 

"It don't matter, 'cause I can't fucking take it no more, I'm sick of this shit! Sick of bein' a rope 'round your neck, sick of having no freedom to do anythin' by myself. How are you not? Can't imagine that any part of this is enjoyable for you."

"That's not true, I enjoy helping you." Charles whispers, fists clenched. 

"Ok, so help me walk then." Arthur rejoinders caustically. 

"No. I won't help you in this meaningless pursuit of self destruction. For what else is this to you? What are you trying to prove?" 

And Charles seems to have hit a nerve. His jaw jutting, Arthur is clearly fuming. And he refuses to acknowledge Charles' question. Instead, resorts to firing back his own with a derisive scoff, 

"So what, you ain't going to help? You think I can't do it then, is that it?" 

"...No. I only think that you are not ready. That is all. It would be foolish, harmful even to try now." Charles replies coldly. "You're not yourself Arthur, I won't entertain you like this."

"Yeah well...maybe this is exactly who I am." he snaps, chest jerking as he stifles a particularly foul bout of coughs. 

And Charles, mouth wired shut, turns to leave. Feeling a coward for it, but unable to resort to much else. It causes Arthur to falter, only now recognising his own monumental idiocy for what it is. And yet he says nothing, too agitated, too impassioned to yet know how to rectify it. So he allows Charles to go, gladly even, if only to temporarily release the poor man from the rigours of his company. Seems the only kindness he can permit these days, godawful as it is. 

And now, caught in the silence, the repercussions of his actions, Arthur can no long bring himself to feel much of anything, well, asides from regret. 

It's...he can't explain it in words, can't express why everything about this ires him so greatly, why today of all days he just had to lash out, to draw blood. He just feels so…helpless, so lost. No longer under the fateful impression that change might come soon, well it just leads him to question the point in even trying. 

Then there's the restlessness from having been immobile for so long. Feels like he's going crazy with it, his frustrations unleashed without a word of warning to Charles, or himself for that matter. Like a rabid dog on a chain, he just can't differentiate between the hand that would feed him and that which would beat him. So instead, he attacks without thought to the intent, focused only on the need to defend what is his, to guard his flagrant vulnerability by tearing down anyone or anything that would get close to him. 

But that doesn't justify it, nor does it undo the pain that he has so carelessly inflicted. So Arthur knows what he must do. And, with a determination that surely verges on lunacy, he drags himself on his belly, to the edge of the bed, flings his arm out like a fishing trawler, snatching at the wheelchair, just out of reach. Until finally, he hooks it in his grasp, so that he can begin the toilsome process of reeling it in. 

Certainly, it is easier said than done. Gasping, his body strains, the pressure rising in his chest. But Arthur keeps trying, tugging it as close as he is able, the wheels catching obstinately on the hardwood. With a snarl, he gives another firm yank, managing at last to line it up besides the bed. With a few gulping inhales, Arthur then pulls himself upright, and wriggles into position. Lining up the shot, he counts down from three, and tosses himself in. 

Side flaring, his whole body rattling from the impact, Arthur holds himself for just a second, until he is fairly certain that all the pieces of himself remain intact, and then, without a second thought, he sets out in search of Charles.

***

Cautiously wheeling himself down the hall, there is only absence, the lack of Charles, there to greet him. Frowning, Arthur glances around, as if a secondary attempt might somehow reveal him, hiding in plain sight. It does not. He must have left, gone to start work early, or else just to transport himself far away from this place. 

And then Arthur stops. Ears pricking, he hears the sweet and mellow timbre of music, drifting from outside. Inching closer, he presses his ear to the front door, and sure enough, the rolling cadence of what can only be Charles playing his harmonica, thrums down his ear, settling warm and light in his stomach. 

Arthur listens a little longer, loathe to interrupt something so sublime, a melancholy smile resting on his face. He almost doesn't notice when it stops, the residual glow of it, still waltzing inside his head, tenderly holding him in its gentle embrace. 

But slowly it fades. And Arthur is once again left standing alone, at the mouth of that gaping pit of dread. And with it being time to now take the plunge, He takes a steadying breath. Anxious, rubbing down his palms on his knees, Arthur rotates so that he can swing the door open, then awkwardly jams the chair and himself through the opened space, outside. 

Charles must already have heard him. Arthur is under no pretense, his entrance is anything but subtle. For, before anything, before even throwing a cursory glance his way, Charles deftly stubs a half spent cigarette, crushes it into the ground, and turning his head away, he breathes the smoke to the wind. A small, undeserved kindness. 

Neither have spoken about it, Arthur's sustained abstinence from smoking, it doesn't really need to be said. Why, that is. Charles, just adapted to things, working quietly all this while to accommodate for him. He no longer offers Arthur one when they do occasionally sit out on the porch, never smokes himself when they are together, never even acknowledges it as something that is missing. 

He avoids looking at Arthur a moment longer, then sighs. Simply stating, "You shouldn't be up."

"I know." Arthur replies quietly. "I shouldn't be doin' a lot of things. Treating you like I did for one."

Charles doesn't reply to that. But Arthur knows him well enough to see that he is listening, intently at that. So he continues, 

"I'm sorry Charles. I know there's no point in me tryna excuse my actions, 'cause the way I behaved...it was inexcusable.

An' I know I ain't coping all that well. Shit, I mean as if that weren't obvious. I jus'...I want it so bad, to get better. But I'm not. I can't. An' It don't matter how hard I try, or even how much I want it, 'cause just feels like I'm stuck in this glue trap. Can't move forward, can't move back...jus' stuck, like this. An' I don't know how I'm meant to get out, to escape without tearing little pieces off, leavin' them behind. It makes me miserable, makes me into someone I don't much like. But like I said, that doesn't make up for nothing, just want you to know that I'm sorry for it Charles, truly, I am."

And Charles softens, just a touch. Reaching over to hold Arthur's hand. 

"I understand Arthur, I do. I can't imagine what it must be like, to feel trapped, to feel rejected by your own body, I truthfully cannot imagine much worse." with a squeeze, he then pulls back, twisting to face Arthur directly now. "Look, if you want to try walking again, that's fine. I'll help you to do so. I just…I need to know that your desire for this isn't some act of harm. That you're not acting prematurely with the express intent of seeking pain."

"I…no. It ain't like that. I mean I know it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker, an' truthfully…I don't much care. But only 'cause the way it is, literally everything fuckin' hurts right now. Sitting, laying, all of it. So by my logic, might as well add standing an' walking to the mix, ain't gonna make a difference. An' I jus' don't see the point in wasting any more time not trying, 'cause what is there to lose? But I ain't looking to be hurt, I don't want it. Just know I can't avoid it, if that makes sense?"

"Alright. I'm not saying right now, leave it with me. I...I have an idea that might help you, I just, well you're probably not going to like it."

***

And Charles is right, Arthur doesn't like it, can barely hide the disdain crawling down his face as he looks on the unassuming wooden stick Charles presents him with the following day. But he bites on it. Convincing himself that surely walking with a cane is still a damn sight better than being trollied about in a wheelchair. So reluctantly, he tests it in his hand, turning it over. The polished wood, smooth, cool to the touch. He nods, this could work.

And with that, they set to it. Replicating the arrangement of last time, Charles' arms, a protective buffer and Arthur, with his additional limb this time, planted at the edge of the bed. 

"You ready?" 

"Ready."

Arthur leans forward, inching his weight onto his legs. He can feel then going, all warped out of shape, creaking like old wood. But he keeps on, gripping the cane, he directs as much of himself as he can into pushing up with his arm instead, and it works. Shooting up, he feels Charles' hands on either side, stabilising him. 

"How is it, are you ok?" he asks. 

"Mm…yeah. S'ok. Gimme a…I think I can--" grunting, Arthur scuffs his foot along the floorboards, it jitters along mindlessly perhaps a few inches, and then he plants onto it, pitching forwards. But with Charles there to meet him, by some unprecedented miracle, Arthur manages to stay afloat. And then, with a singular focus he pulls forwards his other leg and clumsily slaps it down next to its partner. 

Head reeling, Arthur risks a tentative grin, and glancing up he catches a similar display reflected back at him. And not even caring that what he just achieved barely even constitutes as a step, that it most likely looked about as pathetic as a fledgling bird first taking wing, Arthur sinks into Charles' arms, a giddy chuckle bubbling up from between his lips. 

And there they stand. No words are spoken, they just hold one another. For a moment untying the ropes, the weight of so much hurt and doubt, leaving it all behind, and they float out onto gentle waters, two ships, together, sailing into the sun.

***

The rest of that day, it drifts by without so much as a ripple. Arthur for once simply contented to just relax, the sweet honey of success, however slight, still sitting on the tip of his tongue, nestled warm, inside of his stomach. For as trivial as it might seem to outside eyes, it is a fine comfort to know that he still processes the capacity to achieve something, anything. It makes him feel more alive, more real than he has in weeks. 

And with Charles finishing work early, they both enjoy an evening spent together, watching a movie, talking. That's how it comes about, with a seemingly innocuous question. For Arthur doesn't think anything of it at all when he says, 

"Was just thinkin', I missed hearing you play your music. S'beautiful. But...well, was also wondering, how come you never do it no more? I remember hearing it all the time before." 

And Charles quiets, mind tracking back to this morning, when he had still been so overwrought, so affected by their argument. Disturbed so deeply by the man he had seen, the very antithesis of the person he thought he knew. 

He remembers, as he had left for outside, he grabbed for his coat, slid it on unthinkingly. And he felt the reassuring presence of his harmonica resting in his breast pocket. Then, as he settled on the porch, cigarette alight, left to idle on his knee, Charles found his hand reaching of its own accord for that weighty strip of metal, found it pressed to his mouth, wrapped around his lips. The shape of it, as always, so familiar, so accommodating. The two of them, after all this time, still moulded to one another. And he had played. Played to forget himself, to loosen his mind from his body. Simply savouring in the joy of something that felt so natural to him, the unique satisfaction of years worth of experience, of practise paid to fruition, so much of his life, poured into this tiny, inanimate object. 

And then Charles thinks back to those times when he had played expressly for Authur, back when the man had still been bedridden. Too sick to even sit, to remain conscious for more than even a minute at a time. And Charles, perhaps foolishly, had never once considered Arthur would recall anything from that time, that it would hold traction in his mind. Not that he can blame him for that, much like Charles can't blame Arthur now, for bringing it up, for stumbling upon the bones of Charles' past, innocent to the trauma such a question would excavate. 

It's not even that he cares, although…maybe he does. Because, there's something there, a deep-seated discomfort Charles can't now shake. Perhaps simply it is the fact that somehow, somewhere, he had been caught unawares. For he had shared his music, that piece of himself only because it had felt safe to do so, to play for an audience that could not respond to it, could not acknowledge it.

Except he had been wrong, as this present moment is now proving. But, regardless of what he had thought about it then, Charles cannot change it now, and nor can he ignore it. So, with a measured calm, he replies, 

"...You remember that, when I played for you?"

"I…uh, yeah. Shit, did you think I was asleep?" he questions, reading the stiffness in Charles' posture. And crestfallen, Arthur shrinks in on himself, blundering to rectify whatever misstep he has clearly made. "I mean I was mostly out of it...but a little part of me wasn't, y'know? I don't remember none of the details, I just remember hearing music, an' I remember how it made me feel. It helped a lot, with the pain, made me feel calm when nothin' else was making sense. Sorry for bringin' it up…I didn't mean to--"

"No, no, it's...fine. I'm sorry. I just, it was a gift from my father. It's probably the last thing I have of him now." Charles sighs. And resigned, he elaborates, 

"He was a great lover of music, of his culture. A staunch proponent to all the old classics from the Chicago blues scene, Muddy Waters and the like, the music he was surrounded by, what he lived and breathed, as a young man.

He always went back to Little Walter though, for his harmonica. He'd play his records for me and my mother, would even join in himself at times, not that he could keep up, but it didn't matter." and Charles smiles wistfully at that, clearly recollecting the memories of those times. Then continues, 

"See, I know my father had a troubled childhood, he never spoke much about his past, his family. But his love for music, that seemed to be the one thing my father was genuinely happy to share with us, the only piece of himself that he felt was worth passing down. So much so, that he bought me my own harmonica for my 6th birthday. And I practised fanatically, likely drove everyone mad with it. But year by year I improved and year by year he grew more and more distant. 

Then my mother died, we moved to Chicago...and things between me and him collapsed pretty soon after that. He pawned most of his records, even his own instruments, probably earned a handful of dollars for the lot. But it was enough to buy another bottle of whiskey for the night, so he was happy. 

I managed to hold on to mine, kept it with me at all these years. A good luck charm, or perhaps just a reminder of better times…maybe just an omen. In any case, it's not really something I do for an audience, it's...well, it's complicated." Charles shrugs apologetically.

And nodding thoughtfully, Arthur catches his gaze, eyes knowing.

"You don't gotta explain Charles." he offers sagely. And for a while Arthur toys with the notion of something, until finally he plucks up the will to speak it out, 

"I mean…It ain't really the same, but, well you know my hat? That's my Daddy's. I keep hold of it for alot'a reasons, few of them good. Mostly, I just keep it as a promise to myself. A reminder that even though we got the same face, even though we got the same blood in our veins, I ain't him and I ain't never going to let myself become like him. See, sometimes…we gotta hold onto the past, so we know what we wanna be in the future. And sometimes, well it ain't a crime to look back on memories and treasure the good in them, despite the bad they carry too. You do that and you open up the possibility to make new memories, one's that'll soften the hurt, and make it so it all ain't so hard to look back on in the end."

And Charles smiles. He's missed this. He's missed this Arthur. His gentle nature, his disarming perceptiveness. His ability to unearth goodness, to nurture it out of almost anything. 

Gently shifting so that they're now side by side, Charles leans in, careful not to jostle Arthur too much. Head rested lightly on his shoulder, eyes closed, Charles just allows himself to be. To breathe it in, to lose himself in the beat of Arthur's heart, the rise and fall of his chest, decidedly ignoring how it hitches oh so slightly. And barely audible, he murmurs, to himself mostly,

"I thought I had lost you. I've missed you."

And Arthur, possessing some inkling to the full meaning of those words, draws Charles in closer and replies simply, "I know darlin'. I missed you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few thoughts. 
> 
> With Charles, I went and took...many liberties. See in story, since you can hear him playing harmonica in and around camp, I wanted to expand on that. And I thought, well often the learning of a musical instrument is something encouraged and nurtured by parents when we are children. Well, I mean not always, but it happens enough. And to me it seemed fitting to link it to his father. Since Charles doesn't talk about him much in game, I thought tying him to a tangible object, a keep sake would give a vehicle to explore their relationship, much like Arthur and his father's hat.
> 
> Not to mention I wanted to touch on the culture of Charles' father, like I tried to do with his mother. Because it feels Charles' connections to these pieces of himself are very much dependant on the esteem he holds for the people that they came from. I.e. He loved and respected his mother and so he holds her culture closer to his heart. Whereas with his father, the relationship is more complex and so this is reflected in how he interacts with the harmonica.
> 
> The idea is to come to a point where he claims such things for himself, and has his own relationship with them, or something lol. 
> 
> And Arthur, well he's going through it, as per usual. Sorry in advance, he's going to have a very rough time of it coming up, because it's finaaally time to properly crack open the egg that is Eliza and Issac, well...and his dad as well, just for good measure 
> 
> As an aside, I think I'm going to keep up with these end notes essays, it's kinda fun and it helps me to plot the course of things overall.
> 
> Anyways, bye xx


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big warnings!
> 
> We're going deep. 
> 
> Mentions of childhood trauma/abuse  
> Suicidal ideation, depression and past suicide attempt, specifically an overdose.
> 
> Stay safe, if you have any concerns before or after reading please let me know and I'll do my best to help x

Progress, it is a strange thing. For it seems only to whett Arthur's appetite, to smother the successes of the past in favour of elevating those yet to even pass. 

Mere days ago he had been ecstatic, euphoric even at standing, stepping forwards on his own two feet for the first time in over a month and yet now, it seems an advancement hardly worth the energy of acknowledging. For it is not some fixall cure, some miraculous feat that would nullify every lingering struggle, nor cast light on the shadows still jubilating inside his head. Not that Arthur had fooled himself into thinking as such. Well perhaps he had. 

The thing is, Arthur knows he should be grateful, to still be living, to still be breathing. Although the latter is a point of some contention these days. But that is besides the point. He should be happy, should be reveling in the mercy that against all odds, he has been granted yet another chance at life. 

Certainly, it would be almost amusing if it weren't so tragic. For Arthur isn't dumb to the fact that he has racked up quite the debt in that respect. His callous regard for his own mortality over the years having netted plenty of opportunities for death to greet him prematurely, for his red string of fate to be decisively cut short. And yet by some unknowable power, Arthur has clung to life like a bad stench, even now. A divine effort that is wasted on him, truly. For still he squanders it. And it leads him to question if he ever will reach a point of being happy, of being satisfied. Or whether this is just the way things are to be, and at this point, if there is even any point in contradicting his own nature. 

But it does little good to think on, at least he is up, at least he is no longer bed ridden. For ever since that day, Arthur has set himself to standing and walking about, as much as he body permits anyhow. It is probably neither prudent nor wise to do so, but frankly, Arthur can't find the space within himself to give a shit. Doesn't see much point in trying to preserve his body anyway, when it has already given up the ghost. 

Because given the choice, Arthur would much rather show to the world, and to himself, that he is improving, no matter what it might eventually cost him. And by walking, he can at least pretend that everything is alright. 

For now, with but a few days under his belt, bolstered by the aid of his trusty cane, Arthur is able to traverse not just within the confines of the bedroom, but out into the kitchen, even the porch before his flagging strength demands he sit down and rest. It's not particularly gracious, legs wooden, his torso lurching treacherously with each step, Arthur's forced to swing his free arm wildly by ways of counterbalance, but it gets him from A to B. And it is getting easier, growing accustomed to this novel way of ambulating, he's almost got it down to a fine art. 

Although that is not the only ritual Arthur attends, in the pursuit of maintaining appearances. Getting dressed, is another. And it is still a particularly nasty affair, even after all this time. Arthur dreads it each and every day truthfully. But he insists on it, for it is another vital piece in achieving the elusive goal of normality. Even if it still chafes undeniably to require assistance for something so mundane. 

It wouldn't be so bad if the simple act of bending in on himself, of lifting his arm to put on a shirt didn't cause him to seize up, to bunch in on himself, wracked by the ripping pain in his torso. And after his first efforts, when Arthur did actually tear open his wound trying to wrestle on a pair of socks, whilst simultaneously catapulting himself into a rather vile coughing fit, Charles has now made certain to assist, without fail. Of course neither of them overtly mention the weight loss, or the fact that it is getting worse, but Arthur can sense Charles' trepidation towards it in how he interacts with him, handling Arthur as though he is made of glass. 

This morning however, finding himself alone, Arthur elects to forgo the formalities of getting properly dressed for now, instead remaining in his pyjamas. He eases himself up and out of bed, awkwardly donning the plush bathrobe he may or may not have stolen from Charles, and fumbling for his stick he shuffles towards the kitchen. Greeted to an empty space, Charles must still be out for the morning, tending the horses, setting them out to graze for the day. 

With a rumbling sigh, Arthur decides to put some coffee on while he waits. It's not lost on him, how hard Charles works. Most mornings he's out before dawn, back just before noon, they'll spend a few hours together until he then sets out again until evening. 

All while Arthur just sits here and twiddles his thumbs, contributing nothing, asides from just another list of jobs, of duties Charles must attend each day by caring for him. And Arthur, he tries his best, attempting to offer small acts of kindness when and where he can. Tidying up here and there, doing the dishes, putting the kettle on to boil when he knows Charles will soon be back home. Of course, the majority of it is entirely inconsequential, possessing no substance when compared to the innumerable ways Charles helps him. But it's something at least and Arthur is nothing if not determined in his efforts. 

Certainly, it's not like he can do much else. Such menial activities are still about all he can manage, and even then each endeavour is a trial, a brutal test of strength and wills, designed only to prove how incapable he truly is. As if it wasn't already obvious. As if his efforts to convince either himself or Charles to the contrary didn't fall decisively flat each and every time. With each and every pained grimace, each dragging breath. Or otherwise through his ostensibly dour mood.

For despite their conversation, despite the last time Arthur found himself lashing out only to regret it terribly, he still does it. Apparently incapable of learning his lesson. Or perhaps simply incapable of performing to the contrary, of painting over the perpetual fatigue, the piecing agony that still spears right through him at even the slightest provocation. Sometimes it just bleeds right out of him, weeping from his pores, coating his tongue in venom. Finding its release in petty acts of villainy, needlessly harsh recriminations, spiteful little words, bitter and undignified. Pushing Charles away because sometimes he just can't bear his boundless compassion, his guileless concern. Desperate in some kind of way for a reaction, for a justified blaze of anger, something that Arthur can accept as befitting, as fair. 

Lord, it's a wonder truly that Charles is still willing to put up with any of it. Arthur wouldn't blame him if he were to give up, hell at this point he is of the mind to encourage the man along such a path, if he knew it might spare him…this.

Taking pause, Arthur glances over to see that the coffee has brewed. A good enough excuse as any to distract him from such thoughts, he works his way over in search of a pair of mugs. Eventually spying a couple, eye level, tucked away at the back of the cabinet…naturally. Setting his jaw, Arthur spends a moment calculating his approach before then tentatively reaching up with his good arm, bracing his weight into the countertop. Straining, his fingers twitch, grasping for contact, they knock into one of the handles, nudging the both of them further back. Cussing under his breath, Arthur leans further over, his entire body trembling from the effort as he inches closer, and finally he manages to snatch one up. Panting, unable to much enjoy the victory, Arthur bows over the counter, head spinning. 

A forced bang then startles him, the front door swinging ajar and Arthur, twisting instinctively towards the sound hisses from the lick of electricity flashing down his side. It causes the mug to leap from out of his grasp, bouncing to the floor, it shatters. Snarling in frustration, blindsided by his own clumsiness, Arthur disregards the front door, instead focusing his mind on the agonisingly slow process of sinking to his knees in order to pick the blasted thing up. Face drawn, the descent causing pain to lance unhinged through his torso, dancing up and down his spine, ringing in ears, drilling through his teeth. Much like a tuning fork, resonating with the entire pitch of his body, it reduces him to a trembling wreck. 

But Arthur manages it, gathering the shards loosely in the flat of his hand, using his free one to grasp at the counter, gracelessly hauling himself back up. Legs buckling from the exertion, his hips wailing their protestations. It's like the two halves of himself have decoupled, like he's sliding apart, sliced in two. 

Knuckles bulging, Arthur grips the counter all the tighter, desperate. Reflexively, he clenches his hand holding the fractured shards as well, and they slice into the meat of his palm. Bright and hot he can already feel the blood welling in his balled fist, can feel it hot and sticky, trickling between his fingers, pattering in fat drops, to the floor. And the words rip out of him before can contain them. 

"Goddamn useless piece of shit!" 

Breath heaving, Arthur coughs uselessly, his agitated lungs protesting at the sudden outburst, eyes streaming. He wobbles over to the sink then. He unclenches his hand, furiously depositing the ceramic into the bowl, using the tap to wash out any remaining splinters. And then he stops. Feeling eyes on him, Charles' presence. Silent, patient, waiting for permission. 

Downcast, Arthur shuts his eyes, tries to muffle the white noise buzzing between his ears. The realisation that Charles surely just witnessed all of that steeping inside of him. Grimacing, Arthur grips the basin, and nods wearily, inviting Charles in. 

And he doesn't fail to notice the caution with which Charles approaches him. As though engaging with a felled predator, a beast consumed by the inarticulate fury of an animal dying, all snapping jaws and spitting fury, choking himself on the pain and the fear of it all. In that moment Arthur's mind can't help but conjure the notion that he might as well be put down. Surely it would save them both an indeterminable amount of bother. 

And adjacent to that is the potent jab of shame, burning in his guts. Because, the thing is, Arthur knows that look, that watchful unease. The deliberate movement, announcing oneself, slowly, quietly, without words, for fear of rousing that hibernating bear, for fear of falling prey to his keen claws, his impossible, burning fury. He knows because he has seen it in himself, still it lives inside him, the ghost of a small boy, haunted by his father. 

Lord, just the act of existing in Lyle's presence was a treacherous endeavour. Like stepping out onto a frozen lake, the biting waters were lurking always, in plain sight. Phantom shadows swelling and spinning beneath the ice, nebulous and strange, searching, scenting for escape. Itching to snap at Arthur's ankles, to draw blood and yank him head over heels, into the depths. And so much of his childhood, so many years spent, never knowing when the sheeted ice would give way, never knowing what fated misstep would cause the surface to crack, to spider outwards, fracturing from beneath his feet, sucking Arthur under and swallowing him whole. 

Whenever he was sure that such an event would take place, trapping him beneath the ice with the shadow of Lyle eclipsing the world, Arthur had used to struggle. Crying and squealing, bashing his tiny little fists against the frosted glass, shrieking out silently for help, for someone, anyone to notice him. Perhaps a kindly old woman who caught his eye in the street, a police officer buying smokes at a gas station, or a mother cradling her daughter in her arms, the little girl's feet tired from walking on the hot asphalt all day long. He begged for any of them to notice the pain locked inside him. To miraculously see the marks left upon him, despite them being so strategically, so meticulously concealed. 

Christ, he would think on it so hard, willing that singular wish into existence. All as though he could somehow telepathically transmit his thoughts, his pleas for help to some unsuspecting stranger. All in the hope that any one of them could be his saviour, could be the one to cut a hole in the ice, to pull him back out to the surface, to hold him tight, with love and care, and to tell him it would be alright. And he had believed it, believed it with the naive and infallible conviction of a small child. But, of course, no-one ever did. 

It came to a point in his teens when Arthur stopped fighting it. He'd just let the current drag him under, close his eyes and let his body fade into the depths as his mind tumbled out of him. Like a phone left off the hook, a record needle skipping at the end of a track, the vacant space between breaths. He became nowhere, nothing. Neither up or down, neither on nor off, existing but not existing. 

A coping mechanism born out of necessity, his mind and body taking it upon themselves to shield him from the unfathomable pain, to brace against the blows that his conscious self could not. And never had Arthur imagined the day when he would be stood on the other side. To be the inflictor rather than the inflicted. To see that same fear, that anxiety reflected in the eyes of someone he holds dear.

For Charles to react as he did, it could surely mean only one thing. That he too had suffered at the hands of someone else. And that realisation stokes a grief and a white hot rage in Arthur both. But he keeps it down, knowing full well to react as such would not help either of them right now. No instead, he remains silent, still.  
A paltry attempt to convey that he is not a threat, nor a trap seeking to lure Charles in. And truly, what else is he good for? Anytime he is to open his mouth all he does is inflict more hurt. 

Fuck. It's a talent apparently, to push away all the good that enters his life. Almost a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point. Anger, violence, it just lives inside him. A binding clause in the writings of his inheritance, signed in blood. For he is only ever to be defined only by the past, by the man that preceded him, made him. Maybe he really is his father's son. 

Laden by such a revelation, his voice, the sound of wet gravel crunching under someone's boot heel, grating, pathetic. Arthur speaks brokenly, 

"Please Charles, I'm not gonna…I would never--" 

"I know." Charles replies tightly. 

"I just…I'm tired." Arthur mumbles, unable to offer much else of substance in this moment. Because he is. Tired. Tired of explaining himself, of attempting to justify his actions, when even he himself knows that they cannot be justified. Tired of balancing on a razor's edge, of perpetually slipping up and injuring both himself and those around him. Tired of being in pain every fucking minute of every day. Tired of living with it, tired of living with himself. And then, tired of being half convinced it's all just in his head anway, that none of what he is feeling is real. That he's just a fucking lazy bastard, nothing more, nothing less. And utterly despondent he mutters lowly, 

"I'm sorry…fuck. I can't keep doin' this, I can't...I mean I might as well be fucking dead--" But his thought is sliced through its middle, Charles interceding, his voice sparking, sharp as flint,

"Don't you dare speak as though your life is something so inconsequential ever again."

Electrocuted by the sheer ferocity with which Charles speaks, Arthur silences immediately. His eyes flickering reproachfully, searching for answers. Genuinely uncertain as to why Charles reacted so viscerally. And with a shaky exhale, the man continues. Eyes dark, cold. Two stones, buried deep under a lakebed, never having been so much as graced by the light of day. 

"I...you weren't there Arthur, not really. So don't speak as if you know what it would be like…if you were to die." He pauses, distant. Clearly lost within the dense thickets of his resurfacing memories, all brittle twigs and gnashing thorns, ensnaring him within their incisive embrace. And yet despite this, Charles continues, not caring that to forge on will tear his skin to ribbons, will leave him painted in blood. 

"I had been waiting for hours, left with nothing. Unable to leave, unable to act. No indication that you were alive, no direction, nothing of substance to even find you by. Then, you show up on the doorstep without a word, drenched in blood and already half dead. What was I to think? What was I to do? It was too late for a hospital that much was evident. 

And you weren't there to see it…to see the wound, to tend it, to hear your screams as I laid my hands on you. You weren't there after either, trapped in the fever as you were. You weren't of the mind to fear that death might still have taken you, nor when the nightmares woke you, left you blind and afraid, rambling aimlessly, crying out names I have never heard you speak, Eliza, Issac. 

At any point you could have died, and you still could. I fear everyday that the bullet caused far greater damage than either of us will ever know, that it's just a matter of time. Then there's that cough, which we both just refuse to acknowledge, I hate it. I hear how it plagues you so, how it keeps you up late into the night, despite your attempts to hide it from me. And yet you know what? I would live through all of that again, tenfold, if it meant you got the chance to live but another day! So don't you dare speak as though your life means nothing, because it does. At least to me." 

Charles wobbles then. Like a levee about ready to break, the banks bursting, the tide surging forth, and without warning he turns, stating simply, "I have to go."

"Wait, Charles, please--" 

But it's too late, he's already out the door and Arthur, like a fucking geriatric patient can barely turn round quick enough before he hears the door slam. 

Silence. 

And then, like a clap of thunder Arthur slams his hand into the counter, only to yelp in pain, as he realises, too late it was his bum hand he used, fucking imbecile. He doesn't even bother with an attempt to staunch the red squeezing out of his palm, wrenched open by his own stupidity. 

No, shaken to his core, Arthur slumps to the ground, his back pressed awkwardly against the cabinets, the rounded knobs pressing uncomfortably into his spine. He can feel the stinging behind his eyes, the deplorable knot lodged in his throat, for once, nothing to do with the cough. And he lets the tears fall. Feels them pull down his cheeks, clinging to his chin, tapping to the floor. 

What a fool he is. Once again, so caught inside his own thick skull, never once had he taken pause to think, to truly consider all the ways that Charles was forced to play witness to all of…this. To suffer the horrors of his injury, his recovery, and all those moments that Arthur does not even remember. 

To hear all of that, the majority of which Arthur has little to no recollection of, merely fragments, most of which have been distorted beyond recognition, warped into something neither of fantasy or reality...it sickens him. And even now, all of it is still so scrambled up that Arthur doubts he will ever truly know what was real or what was simply a conjuring of his conniving little imagination, conspiring against him. Perhaps it it better that he doesn't. 

For he realises now, it was a blessing really, to have been granted the relative mercy of oblivion, whereas Charles had to live through all of it, with uninhibited clarity. And to hear that he had spoken of Eliza and Issac in his delirium, how much he had inadvertently revealed, Arthur can't say, but it couldn't have been pretty, for Charles to have brought it up. His unconscious mind, dredging up those old wounds, like fetid corpses surfacing from under a mire.

The two of them, both shot. 

And having experienced that pain now himself, Arthur can't help but wonder how it must have felt. Had it been quick? Or had they suffered? Left to die by inches, watching their life pool around them, leaching into the carpet. The only lasting trace that they ever were, had ever meant anything, long after their bodies had been carted off to the morgue. 

Had Eliza tried to comfort Issac in her last moments? To reassure him, to ease the inescapable confusion and fear he must have felt? Or perhaps Eliza had died first, attempting to protect their boy, and little Issac was left all alone, unable to understand why his ma wouldn't wake up? 

Had it been painless, the punchy flick of a switch? Or perhaps a slower, creeping departure? Did they fear death, or had the notion of it softened in their minds once confronted with it? Facing it with a gentle acceptance, drawn to it, a blissful fading of the light. Before they both fell into the other deeper kind of sleep, the kind never to be woken from? 

The autopsy results were vague at best, conclusive only in the assessment that they were both dead and that they had both suffered multiple shots to the body. So it was and still is, up to Arthur to fill in those blanks, the truths that can never be revealed, at least in this life. 

And at that time, he had wondered if death would provide him with the answers, or at least provide an end to the questions. Indeed, he found himself often pondering the notion of death as something he might indulge, for it seemed the only logical choice, the only currency that fate would accept, his pound of flesh, his life. It would be just, it would have been right for him to die then he had thought. To cut short the suffering he inflicted by being alive, to abandon all that pain and to set out for that distant sky, the ceaseless plains of non existence. 

Fuck. He is spiralling, he can't, he can't let himself think like this, not again. The memories of that time forcibly redacted from his mind, scrubbed from existence. The night that Hosea had found him…like that. His first and his last. Never again. He doesn't remember it well, and Hosea, he refuses to speak of it, and perhaps rightly so.

It had been maybe two months following their passing. Arthur had been barely able to keep his head afloat, his entire existence, just...grinding to a halt. It had arrived to a point that he had just stopped showing for work. Stopped leaving the house, stopped cleaning up after himself, stopped shaving, stopped everything. The only few endeavours he still pursued with any kind of enthusiasm were, sleeping, smoking and drinking, the holy trinity as it were. 

Until one day, it had apparently become enough of a concern that Hosea intervened. Booked him a doctor's appointment, to seek out some professional help. And Arthur can't even remember refuting the point, just goes to show how bad it had been he supposes. In any case, he had left the office in a daze, with a crumpled scrip in hand for some pills. And after a week or two, he began at least to feel some kind of effect. The only problem being, the relief that they offered was a double edged blade. 

Whereas before he had been a slave to lethargy, a crippling depression that most days left him incapable of getting out of bed, the antidepressants provided a key. A means of accessing the world once more, allowing him to participate in it. But the pills didn't really remove the pain, just made him less incapacitated by it. And by opening that door, they also opened the way to such thoughts as ending his life with a far greater earnest. For they lifted the fog that had been clouding his eyes, allowed him to think about it as an attainable reality as opposed to something vague and distant from himself. 

That's really how it all started. One morning he just stopped taking them. And with each day that passed there was another pill not swallowed, set aside instead for that special occasion. For It was the only way Arthur could think to do it. Too vain to cut himself, or blow his brains out for that matter. As if aspirating in a pool of his own vomit was any less degrading.

For that's how he was found by Hosea one evening, when he didn't show for work. Passed out on his back, choking on his own bile, the acid gurgling in his throat, dribbling in thick rivulets from his lips. Not even possessing the wherewithal to turn on his side to throw it up. 

And so utterly fucked out of his head, Arthur doesn't remember any of what came after. Doesn't remember Hosea falling to his side, nursing him in his arms, doesn't remember being forced to vomit up the poison seething inside his stomach. Nor being carted out of his apartment, or the hospital trip thereafter. 

The only thing he does remember with volatile clarity is the aftermath. How he evacuated his stomach over and over until nothing was left, until he was utterly depleted. How he was wracked by convulsions, violent, minute seizures, his brain's only way of articulating what had been done to it.

Apparently he was found too late to get his stomach pumped, or to be force fed charcoal, with the pills already lining the interior of his stomach. Not that it would have made any difference, he was already vomiting, ceaselessly at that. For days this lasted, and for days Hosea sat by his side. Until one night, it was just…over. 

He remembers waking properly then. Dawn, just about ready to break, and finally Arthur was freed, permitted to be a person once again. He remembers his mouth feeling drier than it had ever been, his body weaker than a newborn kitten's. He remembers looking over, seeing Hosea slumped in an armchair, ashen, fitfully asleep. And the realisation of it all hitting him hard. He had failed. He was still here. And what was worse is that he forced the man he may as well have called father to live through that failure with him. 

He cried then. Unabashedly, he cried. Weeping for the lost chance at peace, the remainder of his life now spent with this chain around his neck. Knowing that this would now always be a part of him, a part of what others would see when they looked at him. Hosea woke to the sound of it, and neither of them spoke. Just held each other, sharing in their own separate griefs. 

Then the doctors came, deemed him fit to leave as though it had never even happened. Well, under the condition that he remained under strict supervision, unless he would prefer to be sectioned. And without a word to the contrary Arthur accepted. Listened plaintively as Hosea told him on the drive home how it would be. Arthur would pack a bag, and move in with him for as long as necessary. And that's how it was. Arthur didn't go to work the next day, or the day after. And they didn't tell anyone else of it, not Dutch, not John, no-one. If any person did ask, then the blanket excuse was simply that Arthur was not well, that he had contracted the flu. And Hosea, well his word held enough sway that it was for the most part, enough to be left at that. And when it wasn't, any prying questions that did arise, Hosea snuffed out with tactium efficiency, allowing no space for idle gossip to be spread, for false truths to be spoken into reality. 

Certainly, this resounding inflexibility transferred to his method of care as well. For Hosea knew how to keep a tight leash. It would be weeks later until Arthur was to be granted any kind of reprieve. Permitted to leave the house at all, to join Hosea in the office, sifting through paperwork, counting out wage packets, all the administrative work. Simple tasks that would be unlikely to overwhelm him, yet would be enough to distance Arthur from his own mind for a few hours. And peculiar as it was to admit, he grew slowly to enjoy it. The satisfaction in seeing everything placed into a proper kind of order, the quiet company that they shared. It seemed to heal things in a way. Well not entirely, but enough. Enough for Hosea to crack a wise remark here or there, and enough for Arthur to retort with a scathing huff, but with a genuine smile all the same. 

Until came a time that things returned to as they were, at least superficially. For Arthur suspects Hosea will never wholly trust him again, and nor would he want him to. For he doesn't deserve Hosea's trust or his forgiveness for what he did, would never ask for it. 

And still, after all these years, it's been kept just between them. A silent vow, never to be spoken. Arthur doesn't really know if that's good or if it's right, he doesn't know what Hosea thinks of it, if he still does. Of course, there have been times when Arthur would consider bringing it up, but to what end he always asked himself? To simply unearth all that long buried pain, to force Hosea through it all over again? Eventually, Arthur decided that he would not be the one to open that particular box of horrors. He would entrust it to Hosea, so that he might do with it what he please. Throw it to the bottom of the ocean, crack it open in the privacy of his own company, whatever his wishes might be, Arthur would respect them. 

It is a strange thing to look back on though. Far enough in the past that it no longer really feels attached to himself. Just something that happened long ago, the faded memory of a dream. And Arthur had almost convinced himself that none of it was real, that it wasn't himself starring in this wanton tale of woe and misery. 

Except it was, it is. This very moment doing its damndest to remind him of that. The past snapping tight like the spring of elastic, it leads Arthur to realise that it had never really left him to begin with. Just that he's been stuck in its shadow for so long he can no longer even tell what true sunlight looks like. 

And that harrowing reality is enough to send him over the edge. Crawling now, on all fours, like some afflicted creature, Arthur claws his way to the front door, the closest available exit. Scrabbling across the deck, head hanging off the porch, he promptly heaves up the scant contents of his stomach into the tossed dirt. 

Groaning, the bile caustic in his already ravaged throat, Arthur swallows, fighting the urge to wretch all over again. And there he stays, seated next to a pool of his own vomit, for how long, he cannot tell, hand still weeping red. 

It's a jarring enough position to be in that Arthur can call it nothing else than what it is, a wake-up call. For he realises then, how much he needs them. His family. Charles, Hosea, John and Abigail. He just hopes he can make amends. First to Charles, and then well…he'll take it as it comes. 

***

Charles regrets his decision almost as soon as the door has snapped shut behind him. It was uncouth, vindictive even, for him to leave like that, knowing that Arthur would be unable to follow. And yet he had done it anyway, left him again. It wasn't entirely deliberate. Or maybe it was, Charles doesn't know. All he does know is that he just couldn't bear it any longer. The chaos of his own emotions burning a hole through any kind of logical thought or action.

Now, pacing about the ranch without a discernible destination set, he can't tell what he feels, nor what Charles thinks. So he just keeps walking, waiting for the vicious tirade to recede, so that he might unpick the knot tied around his heart. For it truly is heartbreaking, to love someone so hell bent on self destruction. Especially when Charles had allowed himself to hope, perhaps foolishly, that this, their relationship was special. An embarkment, a journey of healing for the both of them. 

But he should have known, should have realised that it was a fool's errand. For how could he ever truly dig Arthur from out of this pit when he himself is still so afflicted by uncertainty, by doubt. Thwarted by his own ineptitude, his own inexperience in navigating simple relationships, let alone one of a romantic nature, or indeed one marred by such a catastrophic chain of events as this. 

And there's still so much about Arthur he doesn't know. The root cause of the conflicted fury within him, although he has his suspicions. The significance of those names, Eliza and Issac however, still remains a mystery. A torn out page in Arthur's story that Charles could never hope to piece together alone. For it's one thing to botch patching up a life threatening gun wound, but whatever emotional trauma Arthur is suffering, past and present is clearly an insurmountable task for his unpractised hand. 

But then, how can Charles ever hope to succeed when so much of Arthur is gated from him? It would be as though attempting to suture a wound blind, to converse in an alien language, it's lexicon resembling nothing that he has ever known. Fumbling with a limited vocabulary that renders any attempt to help clumsy at best, downright harmful at worst. 

And perhaps Charles' efforts have already crossed that imperceptible line, by intruding on Arthur's privacy, or otherwise by exacerbating the incapacitation he surely feels, ever since suffering his wound. Perhaps all this time, instead of helping, Charles has instead, been unwittingly stamping on the fragile remains of his autonomy, grinding it to dust. Aggressively inserting his presence, oblivious and unsolicited. 

In which case, It is no wonder that Arthur has been distancing himself, denying Charles' admittance at every juncture. Now, point blank refusing to be carried, or to be carted about in the wheelchair any longer. Adamant that he can walk, despite the wracking pain that it evidently still causes him. For even with the cane, Charles can see how deeply Arthur struggles with it, how each step reverberates through his body, how it riddles him entirely. Even the short journey between rooms ruins him. Leaves his skin sapped of all colour, eyes glazing over, the pinpricks of tears threatening to puncture the fragile surface of his composure. 

But what is Charles to do, refuse his wishes? Perhaps he should. If it would only prevent Arthur from exacting such unnecessary harm unto himself. For it feels almost gratuitous at times, almost as though despite his earlier reassurances, Arthur has convinced himself into believing that he deserves nothing less.

Certainly, Charles in some small capacity regrets ever agreeing to help Arthur walk again. For it seems only to have invited this insatiable need within him to act out as if everything is back to normal. As if being so close to the finish line has driven him to a temporary insanity, a rabid sprint to the end in the hopes of winning his prize, when in fact all he has done is run himself into the ground. 

And then Charles' mind latches onto that throwaway comment Arthur had made, the one about death being a preferable end to this plight. It causes Charles' blood to run cold, haunted by the devastating implications it carries. The implication that Arthur would actually prefer death to this. That his suffering is so immense, so inassugable, the only acceptable recourse in his mind is to wipe itself from existence. 

And what would Charles do then? What can he do? Perhaps he is already too late. Perhaps Arthur has all this time, longed for this. And Charles, in his attempts to save Arthur's life has only extended it unnaturally past its due. Perhaps Arthur resents him for even trying. And what then? What's to say that soon, he won't turn around and renounce Charles, renounce all that they've built? Deciding suddenly that he wants nothing more than to burn it to the ground, to raze it from existence, so that in time, he might do the same to himself? What would Charles do then? 

The notion, it terrifies him. It instills within him a dread that knows no bounds. And what is equally terrifying is that the only way Charles can see of defeating it, of squeezing this looming horror into submission is to confront Arthur on it. To ask him all these questions directly. 

And so, having now spent the past hour pacing about in agitation, Charles decides he ought to do just that, to find out one way or another. For he needs answers, whatever they may be, he needs them. 

***

Having done a somewhat lacklustre job of cleaning himself up, Arthur waits anxiously inside the cabin, taking the time to shuffle his thoughts into some kind of order. Until finally, he hears the door crack open, hears Charles' light footsteps as he enters. 

Facing one another from across the distance, silence hangs between them. Charles watching uneasily from the sidelines, waiting for Arthur to break it. 

"I…uh, fuck." Suddenly, all that preparation, flung like sand to the wind. At a loss, Arthur wrings his hands, ends up awkwardly gesturing for Charles to join him at the table. Clearing his throat he tries again, "Can I, can I explain myself, I mean if you're willin' to listen?" And with Charles seating himself down, it seems as good a confirmation as any. So Arthur continues. 

"First an' foremost, I wanna apologise. Now' I know them words probably hold little value after all…this. Certainly, I ain't asking for no forgiveness at this point, but…well I dunno, I figure I owe you the truth. 'Cause I'm realising the way I been going, s'just making everything worse, an' I gotta break that cycle 'fore it's too late. I gotta change an' this time, I wanna do it right. And that means accosting all them parts of me I'd rather not face. 

My own goddamn stubbornness for one, and how's it's stopped me from seeing the way of things for far too long. Not just with Dutch…but with everything. Made me so I could never accept help without it feelin' like something I don't deserve, something I ought to give right back. An' it was never a problem until now 'cause I could be content in facing most things alone, knowing that I had the strength for it. But it ain't like that no more. Even if I don't want no help, I sure as shit need it, an' that's what bites. Christ, I can't even walk proper. An' I been actin' a right misery for it, day in day out…not to mention bein' even more beat up and ugly than I was before. 

It's got me so I can't help but wonder why someone as good, someone as genuine and patient as you would even bother spending their time of day on a sorry sack o' shit like myself. 'Specially when I can't even return so much as half the kindness that you've shown me.

But I see now that was just my own insecurities twisting things all around...I think. And what is worse is that by trying to shoulder this alone I left you alone too. 'Cause I ain't been there for you, an' that's the truth. I should'a saw that you were suffering, should'a done something about it. But me, I was too stuck in my own head to realise, like the goddamn idiot I am."

Swallowing tightly, Arthur looks hard into Charles' eyes, the blue of his, startlingly bright. Striking against their backdrop, the whites stained pink by the bloom of burst blood vessels. Charles' heart aches to see it, the evidence of tears shed. But he doesn't flinch, instead holds Arthur's gaze steady, open. Waiting to receive his next words. 

"Look, you saved my life Charles and make no mistake, despite what I said earlier…Well I'll never be able to repay you for that. Not now and not ever, 'cause just bein' with you, it fuckin' saves me every day. I need you Charles, but most of all I love you. An' I don't know if l can make amends for the pain I keep putting you through, but I shall do my damndest to try, but only if that is something you are willing to accept."

Mind reeling. It is difficult to know where exactly to start. But Charles tries, slowly unpicking the tangle of threads Arthur has laid out before him, separating and ascribing meaning to each one until he finds some kind of beginning. 

"I…this whole time I had begun to fear that you would want to be rid of me, that your distancing signified as such. And all this time you've been doing so instead because you consider yourself undeserving of help? Because you've been trying to spare me the ordeal of helping you?" 

Balking at such an astute summation, Arthur replies stiltingly,

"I…well, pretty much. But listen Charles, don't you ever think…look, never, I would never want to be without you, ok? I'm so sorry I made you even think it. Fuck…I never could of got through any of this without you, even though all I've been is terrible to you in return. Even through this whole thing, you've been a cornerstone, a fuckin' pillar of strength, and you know what? You didn't ask for that, I put that pressure on you, knowing or not, I made you carry both of our weights on your back. 

It's why I been feelin' so guilty I guess. 'Cause I know I ain't…well I ain't strong enough to hold you up like you been doin' with me. I can't do all them little things I wanna do to help, all I can do is be a burden, so that's why I tried to lessen it by turning away. But I ain't about to make that same mistake again. I'm here for you too alright? An' even though I can't do much, I can listen, I can do that. An' not 'cause I feel I have to or nothin', but because I want to. Promise." Voice wavering, not for lack of conviction, but rather a prolonged lack of oxygen, Arthur gulps down a few breaths. Nodding slightly, more to bolster himself than anything, to push back on the encroaching spots eagerly consuming his vision. Of course it passes, like most things with time. And after a few moments longer and Arthur is able to refocus on the world outside himself, to look upon Charles with seeing eyes, to read his expression, to listen. 

And Charles nods, mute. Tears threatening to spill at the acknowledgement of all the stress, all this tension he has been unwittingly carrying. These past weeks, entirely benumbed to the burden, it is only through Arthur speaking it into existence that Charles recognises it once again. Suddenly made aware of that perpetual knot coiled inside his stomach. And what is more, he can now feel it loosen just a notch, enough that the gasping relief such a small change elicits leaves him feeling giddy, his whole body falling slack, no longer restrained by the ties that bound it. 

Brushing away the moisture still welling in his eyes, Charles offers a watery smile, before replying. 

"Thank you Arthur. I...I think I needed to hear that." and with a measured inhale, he adds, "But in return, please would you promise me to do the same? To let me help you, because it is something I, too, want to do. It's not a burden, you're not a burden, so please, just let me. Because, Arthur…I love you too. And what is more, I'm scared because I love you. I want to be with you more than anything I have ever wanted, and yet I'm terrified. For there is so much pain you carry, this monster trapped inside that I cannot see, cannot even begin to comprehend. 

So I just…I need you to be honest with me. I can't do this alone, I can't do this if you don't want to be alive with me Arthur. And whether you are in the habit of longing for death or not, this pain that you're carrying, it is stopping you from living, that much is evident. And I know I can't force you to change, nor can I demand answers from you. But I couldn't…the thought of losing you, I can't do that again. So I need to know that you want this, want us enough to fight for it."

And held by the weight of those words, Arthur replies heavily, 

"I understand. An' I know you got no reason to believe me, but I meant the words I said, I am gonna face this. An' I know part of facing such things is to talk about them, I do. I just…it ain't easy." 

And he frowns then, nostrils flared, eyes wide. As though battling against some unseen force, some entity pulling down at his crumbling facade, blasting it to dust. A display that Charles watches with discernable discomfort. And suddenly, possessing very little desire to see what lurks behind the surface he speaks, 

"It's ok, you don't have to--" 

But Arthur cuts in, swift and decisive as a forger's hammer, pounding down upon a rod of molten metal. 

"No. No, I do. See, I intend to prove to you that I am willing to do this right, an' that means staying true to my word. So I ain't gonna hide behind the past no longer. it ain't fair to no-one, least of all you. 'Specially since it's you that deserves answers, most of all." And with nothing left, other than those words, Arthur says, 

"See…I had a son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof.
> 
> Man, I'm sorry if this is a right mess. There's so much I wanted to unpack in this chapter, I'll try and explain some of it down here. 
> 
> I guess first of all, it might seem kinda counterproductive to have Arthur in a seemingly decent place last chapter only to turn on it all here, to have him repeat his mistakes whilst also generally just having a shitty time. But I really did want to try and convey that recovery is in no way linear. That sure, what might be a success today, could then be completely overshadowed by something else tomorrow. And especially with the kind of chronic pain Arthur is enduring right now, that kind of pain wears you down, both in mind and body, not to mention that it's fickle and extremely changeable. 
> 
> It can make you feel miserable, angry, entirely despondent, or you might feel inadequate, even lazy. It can make you doubt yourself, and the veracity of your pain, can make you feel entirely isolated. And it can also make you self-centred, not through any fault of your own of course. But when you whole existance is centred around pain, naturally that is all you can find yourself thinking about. It's prerogative is to make little space for anything or anyone else.
> 
> It's why Arthur feels so ashamed for not fully realising everything Charles has been going through. Why he's now so desperate to make amends. It's the kick up the backside he needed essentially. 
> 
> Because once faced with this, I tried to have Arthur realise how much he needs people in his life to get through this. How much he needs help, if he is going to bear any chance of moving on. Starting with Charles, but next chapter we will also be having some quality Hosea time as well. Mainly because Arthur needs to process the hell out of all his repressed trauma lol. 
> 
> And that's I guess another thing, memories being much like a rabbit hole. How Arthur's gunshot opens the can of worms that is Eliza and Issac, how that then leads to Arthur reliving that grief, the depression and his attempted suicide. 
> 
> See, I know I've kinda toyed with Arthur displaying suicidal thoughts/tendencies in past chapters but never outright confirmed he made an attempt on his life till now. And that is kinda deliberate. Because I figured, as a memory, it is almost taboo, even in the privacy of Arthur's own mind. The elephant in the room that he is too scared to acknowledge until he is all but forced to confront it. Much like the memories of Arthur's father in this chapter as well. Again nothing pretty. 
> 
> And well, not only that but the memories of old trauma are strange things, never easy to examine objectively, they twist and change. Often distant one moment, then inescapable the next, when some inciting incident brings everything you thought you had forgotten back with a incapacitating ferocity. 
> 
> And these memories never really go away, at least from experience. they'll snap back, over and over. But at least the distance you can stretch yourself from them seems to increase a little each time.
> 
> But yeah, next chapter is gonna be official sit Arthur down with his dad and talk it out time.  
> And well the rest, I'll leave it as a surprise. 
> 
> I'm very sorry if any of the topics in this chapter, or the way that I have written them is upsetting to anyone. If there's anything anyone needs from me, don't hesitate to message. 
> 
> Other than that, bye bye and best wishes x


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how arduously Charles turns over those words in his mind, no matter how hard he examines them, picks them to pieces and rebuilds them, they do not make sense. Oh he recognises their individual meaning, how together they are a sensical string of letters, sounds that would form a sentence and yet he cannot make himself understand. 
> 
> Arthur had a son? Had…not has. So then what happened, what was the instigating event, the trigger pulled that flicked present into past? And what meaning does 'had' hold within itself? Is the boy alive, is he well, does he know Arthur and does Arthur know him? Or does 'had' imply a loss of far greater, a loss infinite and opaque? Is the boy not only past, but passed? Gone of this world before even reaching adulthood, perhaps even before birth? And how would Charles even ask such a thing, does he even want the answer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been a minute. Was kinda taking a break, kinda not. I'm going to keep the notes short and sweet for this one, so this is is, see you next chapter xx
> 
> Also wanrnigs again for talk of suicide, just in case, and character death

No matter how arduously Charles turns over those words in his mind, no matter how hard he examines them, picks them to pieces and rebuilds them, they do not make sense. Oh he recognises their individual meaning, how together they are a sensical string of letters, sounds that would form a sentence and yet he cannot make himself understand. 

Arthur had a son? Had…not has. So then what happened, what was the instigating event, the trigger pulled that flicked present into past? And what meaning does 'had' hold within itself? Is the boy alive, is he well, does he know Arthur and does Arthur know him? Or does 'had' imply a loss of far greater, a loss infinite and opaque? Is the boy not only past, but passed? Gone of this world before even reaching adulthood, perhaps even before birth? And how would Charles even ask such a thing, does he even want the answer? 

Throughout all this, Arthur seems to have plucked the courage, or perhaps he has merely grown tired of Charles' silence, an sprawling impasse he would rather not bear any longer, for he clears the air, begins talking,

"...Yeah. See, this was well before your time with the gang, an' wasn't somethin' folks talked of back then…I guess under the impression it would be to my own benefit not to dwell on it, either that or Hosea told them as much." 

He then releases a wearied sigh, the seat creaking in protestation as he leans into it, but it holds, apparently as does Arthur, for he continues, 

"But anyway, I uh…I fell for this waitress, Eliza. She used to work across the street from us. An' every goddamn day I would find some excuse to waste an hour or two there, prolly spent two months wages on shakes an' fries jus' on the off chance she might be workin', an' that I might get the chance of seein' her. Suppose she must have been somewhat endeared by my idiocy, 'cause we eventually got to talking. An' then I found that I liked her even more."

He pauses then, eyes drifting, seeing too much or nothing at all. And Charles, watching on, doesn't quite know what to feel. All of this, so unsettling in its unfamiliarity. Even Arthur himself, seems to be overshadowed by it all, cast in a peculiar, transformative light. It is subtle enough to the eye, and yet Charles finds it skews his view of him entirely. 

For he was…is a father. And now Charles berates himself for never having known to ask, nor to consider that Arthur had an entire life, a family, before they themselves had ever crossed paths. It sounds exceptionally foolish even to admit as such, of course he had a life before Charles entered it. But…well, for as long as they have known each other, Arthur has always just been…Arthur. Predictable, dependable, a man so set on his course that to step foot off that track would seem a contradiction of his very nature. The notion almost as ludicrous as a train electing on whim to take flight, or a bird spontaneously sinking down to join with the earth like a wedge of coal. 

And Charles can't even call it a betrayal of trust, although in some strange capacity it feels as such. As though wolves are suddenly calling themselves deer, as though water has all this time run dry, and the world has unbeknownst to him, unfurled itself flat. And what is more, Charles is expected simply to accept these impossible truths as fact, despite them undermining everything that he has ever known. 

Perhaps it is not really betrayal then, so much as a pure and unadulterated shock. A shaking of his earthly foundations so vigorous, it now leaves him entirely upended, with nothing left to stand on. 

Nevertheless, Charles seeks to regain his footing. And now, picking himself out of the wreckage, he commences the search for some kind of order amidst the chaos. For he has so many questions, now blooming on the tip of his tongue, all jammed inside his mouth. Each one contending to be the first to escape. But he doesn't get the chance to utter any of them. As oblivious, lost in the momentum, or else just fearful of losing it altogether, Arthur marches on, 

"It was…I mean she had a rough go of life, Eliza. Left home young, no family to speak of. But she had such big dreams y'know? Going to college, makin' something of herself, the lot. It was a marvel really, an' I was starstruck. 

See, all my life I never thought that dreams like that were meant for folks like us, an' yet there she was, provin' me wrong all along." He cracks a bitter smile, enough to leave fissures in Charles' own heart. "But…well it didn't last. We was both young and stupid. Got carried away one night and...I mean you can guess, nine months later along comes little Issac.

When I eventually found out, I felt awful 'bout it all. Felt like just another deadbeat dad, one more to add to the ocean of countless others fucking up their children's lives over and over. Just like my own daddy, and prolly his before that. But she took it in her stride. Even though she was forced to put all them hopes for a future on hold, 'Liza still managed to be good, to be kind. Even to the one person that had ended up ruining her life…even to me."

Arthur grimaces at that. Thinking back, truly she gave him for more than he ever deserved. And look what it had cost her, what it had cost them in the end. Not that he will ever stop paying for it mind you, and not that it will bring them back, regardless. 

Sighing, Arthur rubs his eyes, digging a knuckle or two in, the sensation is at least vaguely satisfying. Even if it fails to dispel the image of them two, emblazoned upon the insides of his eyelids. At this point, hardly seems worth the effort of trying to vanish them away, might as well acknowledge their presence, as well as he remembers anyways. 

And thinking on Issac, as much as it stokes the fires of inconsolable grief, as much as the pain of his absence still pierces Arthur through, gutting him belly to chin like a fish, somewhere, nestled within all that is a miniscule bloom, a lonely little floret, eager for care and attention. For even amidst all the hurt, the memory of him, still spreads a quilted warmth, a golden light, liquid and pure. Seems even now, that boy still holds his heart, clutching it steadfast in the palm of his tiny little hand. 

Then, he feels himself possessed almost, by the desire to immortalise that feeling, to spark it to life, in the fear that it may one day leave him forever, that one day he will simply forget. Forget what it is to love another life with one's entire self, forget the sound of his boy's laughter, or his smile, the way his cheeks became round and bright as ripe apples. 

But then maybe he already has, forgotten that is. See, if not for the scant few photographs in his possession, what is to say Arthur wouldn't have forgotten what Issac looked like? And what is to say, the memories he does hold in the enclosures of his mind aren't just sanguine fabrications, the edges softened by time, tinted by the rose coloured lense of nostalgia? 

He doesn't know. Doesn't know if it even matters, nor how to even go about untangling such questions if he were actually inclined to do so. As it is, as if such words are answer enough, as if they might explain his abrupt lapse into silence, he simply says, 

"It's just…you know, I don't talk about 'em much, if at all really. But I think about 'em, always." 

Charles nods, Arthur's statement, weighing on his mind. Compelled to wonder, just how long exactly he has been bearing this all unspoken, how long since he even uttered either of their names, to anyone. The notion sits uncomfortably inside of him. And Charles can't say if it is really his place to rectify such a thing, but it still feels like he ought to try, and so he asks, 

"What was he like? Your son, I mean."

And Arthur, regards him with a somewhat peculiar expression. As though it had never even occurred to him that Charles might ask such a question, he replies dumbly, 

"Issac?" 

Then, apparently answering himself, realising that yes, of course Charles meant Issac, he rectifies, "He was…I mean, he was somethin' special." stating it plain, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. 

And perhaps it is. The unconditional love shared between parent and child, surely there is nothing simpler, Charles ponders. Instinctive as breathing, as being. At least it ought to be, and he would almost believe it, with the way Arthur speaks in such open adoration. But of course it is not so. For they two are testament to the contrary, their own paternal relationships both equally fraught and complex, in their own ways. 

But for a moment, Charles just wants to believe in such things, to drink up the words that pour from out of Arthur's mouth, to see this piece of him unveiled in its entirety. Regardless of the burdensome unease that sits in his stomach like a bed of stones, the knowing without being told, that this story is not the kind to end happily. 

Not that it matters. For Arthur clearly needs to speak it and he finds himself longing to hear it. And then, well he can only hope it all might lance this wound that has clearly been left to fester for so very long. So with a slight smile, a nod of encouragement, Charles nudges Arthur along. It doesn't take much truthfully, Arthur seemingly grateful to be permissed the chance to speak so freely, without intermission, and without judgement. Again it leaves Charles wondering exactly how long all this has been sitting inside of him, how long it has been feeding, growing fat on his silence. 

"Y'know, I remember seein' him for the first time, didn't even seem real, as small as he was. Jus' a tiny little thing when he was first born." he says quietly, a gentle wonderment cresting in his eyes, "An' then I remember holding him an' thinking…how the hell did somethin' so good come from outta me? Didn't seem right or fair, and yet the evidence was still sat right there, in my arms."

Charles hums. Chewing on the urge to refute that last point, to somehow, someway convince Arthur yet, that he is a good man. Capable of kindness, capable of bringing good into this world, if only he would allow himself to see it. But with no inclination to interrupt, he lets it lay, for now. Waiting instead for Arthur to continue. 

"But then, I also remember looking down at him an' bein' scared shitless." he chuckles wryly, "Suddenly…the thought of caring for a life that weren't my own seemed damn near impossible, truthfully. Part of me almost understood then, why Marston upped and left. Not that I would…could ever...But anyway, Issac didn't seem to mind, he was patient. He didn't care if I made a mistake 'cause I was still learning, or if I was tired from workin' the night before. An' he didn't care…that I was me. If anythin', as a baby he was teachin' me far more than I could ever have hoped to teach him, even if I didn't realise it at the time.

Then, time kept going, an' he got to that age when he started to become his own little person, showing his personality, y'know? Now he could be a cheeky little shit lemme tell you, but even so young, he was kind, like his ma. Always sharing his toys, smilin' at strangers. An' you see all that and suddenly as a parent, it's all just laid out right in front of you…the future. All that promise an' hope for what he could'a been…it's crazy." He tails off then, gesturing vaguely. As though attempting to grasp the precise essence of such imperceptible things, of now empty hopes, and lost dreams. 

Charles nods along as though he understands, as though he can empathise, he cannot, not truly anyway. Although…a piece of him yearns to. Arthur's words holding a key to a door Charles never knew existed, or perhaps just never acknowledged. But he presses down such thoughts, not knowing what else to do with them, at least for now. Instead, he asks one more question, the one that this has surely all been leading up to,

"So, what happened to them?" 

Arthur darkens. A grim acceptance pulling on his features, forced to acknowledge the bitter end of this story. His words come out short and empty, "They was both shot, a robbery. No sense in it, no closure. Just one day they was both gone and I had to carry on livin' with that. Not that I…did a particularly good job of it." he tacks on reproachfully. 

Those words sit between them for a beat, and Charles feels a chill gripping the base of his spine. It clambers all the way up to his head, clasping its digits to his skull, then all the way down to his fingertips, to his toes. He then asks, tongue heavy, throat dry, "What do you mean?" 

To which Arthur turns his chin down, shamefaced. Fingers a jumbled knot, they keep reassembling themselves upon the table top. And for a moment, Charles thinks that he won't reply, but then he does, 

"I was in a real bad way for a long time. I uh…actually came pretty close to ending things just a few months after it all happened. Pills." but he amends swiftly, undoubtedly clocking the wide eyed horror painted upon Charles' face, "It wasn't the worst it could'a been, not by a long stretch, jus' a few night in the hospital in the end. No harm--" 

He then stops himself from finishing that sentiment. Realising a hair too late that to utter such words would be frightfully injurious, discrediting the truth entirely. For there was plenty harm done, to him and those unfortunate to be caught in the croshairs. So instead he seeks to glaze over that particularly unfortunate turn of phrase, stating instead, 

"In any case...I got lucky, Hosea found me, saved me, helped me get back up onto my feet. An' by the time you had joined us, I...all of us had got back to some kind of normal. That, an' no-one really knew the full of it anyways, 'sides from Hosea. We went and called it a leave of absence or some other such thing while I recovered, didn't tell no-one what it actually meant. Then...as time went on, wasn't ever no reason to bring it up again, not the kind of thing one enters into polite conversation."

And avoiding Charles' eyes, Arthur remains quiet now. Shrunk in on himself, humiliated, vulnerable. Stripped of that armour he has come to be incapable of facing the world without, now entirely defenceless to whatever act Charles may find befitting of his imagined crimes. 

It stings to acknowledge that Arthur would even think Charles capable, or indeed of the mind to tear strips off of him after such an unadulterated display of honesty. But he has to remind himself that in this moment, it is not about him. It is a reflection, if anything. The projection of Arthur's own insecurities, his own self-loathing rising, to settle upon the surface. 

And it all now makes sense. 

This is it. The how and the why. The core of that terrible singularity, the pit that has been devouring Arthur from within, all this time. And with a tightness now slipping around the breadth of his chest, Charles realises it also explains how Arthur is so sure footed, so gentle around little Jack, because he had done it all before…with Issac. 

God…he can't even fathom the pain of it all. To not only lose a child, but to then be faced by his spectre in the shape of his brother's son. To watch another's little boy grow up before his eyes, all whilst his own is to remain forever the same, to never grow old, to never become more than what Arthur alone remembers of him. 

It certainly explains his obsessive fixation on the past, his inability to find hope in a future that he clearly does not see himself deserving of. And why would he, dare to hope? In Arthur's mind he has surely squandered what he believes to have been his only chance, the singular and crystalline opportunity to lead a normal life, now buried between two graves, six feet deep, into the dirt. 

And knowing Arthur, Charles can say without reasonable doubt, that he surely blames himself for all of it. That in some twisted way, he sees himself as the inflictor of all the pain, all the suffering felt by those closest to him. That if he had not been there to enter their lives in the first place, he would have indubitably spared them having befallen such terrible misfortune. 

And what is perhaps even more grievous to consider is that Charles doubts many even thought to belay the point, that they would even know such guilt was something that gripped Arthur so tightly, that it would become a corded noose Arthur would willinging slip over his own head, passing each day by simply awaiting the moment that it would snap tight, that he would be granted the chance to end his life by his own hand. 

Charles doesn't know what to say. How to shatter such fallacies, to break it all to pieces so that it might never be repaired, for as long as they both live. So instead he says, 

"I am so sorry. I…" 

But Arthur cuts him off. Not unkindly, but simply seeking to absolve Charles from the duty of trying to fix this abominable mess. 

"Nah. Don't be, ain't your fault."

"And neither is it yours. You know this right?" 

To which Arthur remains decidedly silent, it of course, speaks volumes. "Well, I'm telling you Arthur, it was not your fault. For what else could you have done? Even if you had been there, with them, do you think you could have stopped it? Do you think either Eliza or Issac would have wanted you to die alongside them?"

Silence, before Arthur realises that Charles is indeed waiting for a response, he replies, somewhat nonplussed, "I…well no, not really."

"Exactly." Confidence brimming now, Charles steams ahead, determined to squeeze any lingering doubt on the matter, into unending submission. "Now, what is more, by living, they live on with you, yes? So, do you think they would want you to think of them only as subjects of grief? Don't you think that they would rather you remember them fondly, to speak of them in love, sharing your memories of them with others, as you have done with me?"

A considered pause, then, "Ok, ok...I see your point." 

And urging now, pressing perhaps harder than he should for an answer, Charles asks, "So, do you still blame yourself?"

"...I, no." 

"No?" 

"No, I don't think I do." Arthur says, stronger. 

"Good. Because that is how you honor the dead Arthur. Not just be grieving their loss, nor by assigning blame to their passing. But instead, by celebrating all that they gave in life. So allow yourself the space to do that, please. And I know that you likely don't want to talk about it much more than is necessary, but about…well, your attempt--" 

"Charles, you don't--look please…" eyes frantic, dripping with fearful energy, Arthur all but begs for him to stop. 

"You gotta realise that was, is, probably the greatest regret of my life. Now I...can't change what I did, nor how folks might look upon such a sin if they ever was to find out. But Charles, I need you to understand, whatever you might think, it don't change me. I ain't…like that." Jaw clenched, hard and yet as brittle as worn porcelain, he adjoins, "Please, just don't think of me no different." And unspoken are the words, 'don't treat me like I'm weak, like I'm a liability, like I am a fuse already lit, a man that is walking dead.' 

Charles, eyes rapt, evidently reads between the lines, for he replies, "Arthur, listen to me. I will not lie to you. To suffer grief as you have, only to overcome and to survive through it against all odds…such an ordeal is bound to cause change, it would be irresponsible to posture otherwise. However to undergo such transformation does not make you any less, it does not make you weak, or undeserving of love, it only makes you human. 

And if it bears any comfort, you are still the same man in my eyes. The man I first met, the man I know now, loyal to a fault, disarmingly kind, rough and warm in all the best ways. Your eyes are still blue, your hair still brown, your smile is still the greatest gift that has graced this faulted earth, you are still you."

Bewildered, dazzled by such forthright pronouncements, Arthur flounders uselessly for any kind of befitting response. How exactly he might put words to the absolute relief he now feels, from a burden he hadn't truly realised he had been carrying. About all he can muster is, "Sure…I, thank you Charles." he mumbles it, throat traitorously tight. 

"You're welcome."

And both momentarily lost in their thoughts, something, another piece in Charles' mind connects, "Hey, that photo I saw in your trailer...I had thought it was your parents, with you as a child…but it's not. That's you, with Eliza and Issac?" he asks. 

And Arthur, a little taken aback, replies stiltedly, "I…uh, yes. I got a better picture of him in my wallet, we took him to get one of them baby portraits taken when he was still real young. You know, the kind you stick in Christmas cards an' all that. Reckon it's in my jacket, if you wanna dig it out."

"You sure?" 

"Yeah, 'course." Arthur assures, clearing his throat gruffly. 

So Charles goes in search of it, rooting around each pocket until his fingers brush against the supple surface of aged leather. And gently carrying it over, he hands Arthur the wallet, without a word. 

Fingers fumbling, Arthur empties a slew of receipts and other scraps out onto the table, until he finds what he is looking for. A creased wad of paper, he unfolds it carefully, observing it with a plaintive look, before passing it to Charles. 

And looking down on it himself, Charles finds himself captivated by the little face looking back up at him. The colour has faded terribly, the fault lines from where it has been folded, obstructing a great many details. But he can see plainly that they share the same eyes. The mop of hair though is dark, he can only attribute that to the boy's mother. Nodding, he hands it back to Arthur, watching as he reverently folds it back up, tucks it away once more. He then sets it all aside, picking at some imaginary thread on his pants before stating with a kind of finality, 

"Well, that's that I suppose. If you got any more questions…" 

But Charles shakes his head. "No questions." he edges closer, carefully lifting up Arthur's fidgeting hand, wrapping it in his own. "I…only want to thank you for telling me all of this. For trusting me with it."

"Sure. I, thank you for...well just, thank you for being you, an' for being with me."

"Of course," Charles murmurs, gentle, "Now c'mon, how about some breakfast, and then I'll let the boss know I'm taking the rest of the day off."

Arthur smiles, a small but precious reward, and Charles, he returns it in kind.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And whilst Arthur warms to hear Hosea's voice, he can't deny the commensurate sense of remorse, like an ice pick hammering slow into his chest, it's spike, burning cold. Remorse, for having been a source of torment and concern to the man in these past few months, and in some kind of way, for even getting into this situation in the first place, for being so stupid as to walk right into that vipers nest, to get himself shot for it, all on Dutch's word. 
> 
> It makes him feel undeserving to even share conversation with Hosea truthfully, or to receive his delight in hearing Arthur's voice after all this time. And there's not many words that could even resolve such a thing in Arthur's mind, although an apology certainly isn't out the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I know I promised Hosea a couple of chapters ago, well finally I can be good to my word. 
> 
> Also thank you to anyone still reading for waiting patiently in the face of my erratic uploading schedule.
> 
> Just watch out, warnings wise, little bit of talk on Eliza and Issac, the suicide attempt etc.

It's strange, talking about them two. It wasn't nearly as painful as Arthur had thought it would be. 

It seems the fear he had held of Eliza and Issac, those two spectres, stalking the perimeters of his mind all these years, was largely unfounded. For the dead hold no animosity towards him, no hatred he now realises. No, that was all just a ghoulish fabrication of his own mind, his own self hatred latching onto them. A cannibalising parasite in many ways, it concealed itself in plain sight, convincing Arthur that it did not exist. That it wasn't in fact himself he feared facing all along. But with Charles having shined a light on such terrors, beating them down with simple words, he so easily cast out years of doubt, years of guilt, from within Arthur's mind. 

And now, stood on the other side of himself, that wretched little beast that has all this time resided within, no longer quite holds him as it once did. It's power is gone. And now, with the tables metaphorically turned, it is Arthur it should fear. For he will stop at nothing to de-seat it from its throne, to light a pyre in its place, watch it burn. And to admit as such, it is strangely freeing in a way, although it leaves him feeling terribly vulnerable all the same. To turn his back to a piece of himself, one that he has permissed unmitigated control, for so very long. It makes him wonder exactly who or what he would be without it. Without that trenchant self-hatred soaking everything else up, transforming every interaction with himself into something putrid and vile. 

Not that he should be fixating on such things just yet. As first, he has to get there, to arrive at that destination. A time and place where he might look upon himself and feel something other than disdain. Far-flung, a remote island that is but a hazy smudge on the horizon, Arthur still doesn't quite know how he will arrive there, nor how long it will take, especially as he is, still broken and lame. 

And it is one thing to accost that demon, to accept that Eliza and Issac's deaths were not by his hand, or even to recognise that his responsibility to them extends far beyond that of his own contrition. But there is plenty yet he still must face. His self, his physical self that is, in all its present ugliness. For it is a bitter irony surely that, as his mental fortitude sets to improve his physical continually diminishes. It certainly raises the question as to whether all this effort is worth it, when it may simply happen upon a quite literal dead end, the possibility that his failing body may even deny him the chance of becoming anything more than what he currently is. 

It is a dire predicament. An abominable hydra he faces. Lopping off one slithering head only reveals two more, rearing up to take its place. And how Arthur is meant to solve anything when all he uncovers are more questions than answers, is far beyond him. 

Particularly when the greatest of them all, is one he fears the most to see answered. And that is the source of his coughing, and all that comes with it. Part of him, still foolishly hopes that it means nothing, that he might yet recover with ample rest, more time. Whilst the rest of him...well it can't help but fear the worst. 

Which then raises the question, what is he to do with himself? How is he meant to live? For on one hand, surely he ought to be wringing the worth out of each and every second, to not take anything as given, so that he might appreciate each moment as it deserves to be appreciated...and yet he can't. Hesitating, in the knowledge that it might yet be all snatched away. In which case, surely it is better to withhold himself? To spare himself the pain of knowing what he might lose by making that dreaful choice to disengage with all of it? Turning his back to all the joy and the pain in his life both. By which logic, he might as well already be dead Arthur ponders morbidly. 

Fuck. He needs to stop thinking. He needs to get a fucking grip and do exactly what he intended on doing before he had unwittingly propelled into this nosedive, if only to take his mind off it all. For it is a duty that he has long put off, and one that he is still not entirely keen to attend to, but he must. And that is the duty of restoring his connection to the world outside of Charles' cabin, outside of these four walls, to those that he hopes to still call family. 

For Arthur knows, even as a man who can find great solace in solitude, comfort in existing only to himself and no other, that there is a discernible difference between the act of being alone and that of feeling alone. Certainly, if these last weeks have taught him anything, it is that he is not by any stretch, immune to his own mind, and that if he is to find any lasting way out of this, the undertow that seeks only to drown him, he surely needs to look outside of himself, to reach out and clasp onto that metaphorical life preserver, at least…so he hopes. 

And so, with Charles having already politely excused himself for the day, already informed of his intent, Arthur now unearths his phone from its resting place at his bedside, replacing the battery, and dialing the first of two numbers he intends on calling today. 

The line crackles, and for a moment Arthur considers hanging up, convinced he entered the wrong number. Then, that unmistakable voice clatters down his ear, "Arthur? Is that…you?" 

"...I, yeah, it's me." 

A pause, and then John launches right into it. A yipping coyote, tearing into him, it's enough to make a stronger man's ears bleed, "The fuck...You're awake? You're talking? Since when? You better explain yourself real fucking fast 'fore I strangle it outta you, invalid or not, so help me god…you know how worried we've all been?" 

Cringing, phone held at length, as though the thing is a stick of dynamite, Arthur only returns the receiver to his ear once he is certain the commotion has sustainably dimmed, replying weakly, "I know. I should'a called you sooner, I'm sorry John. Really I am."

"…Alright. I mean it's not, but whatever." Evidently still sour over it. "Just, talk to me you old bat, what happened, are you ok? You sound awful."

To which Arthur hums in agreement, for once, electing to brush past John's grating petulance. Rather, in the interest of transparency he just lays it out flat, plain and simple, "Reckon I look it too. S'why I didn't call or nothin', knew as soon as I did y'all would be banging down the door 'fore I could even sit up straight, wouldn't have done none of us any good. Honestly…it's been pretty bad. Don't remember much from early on and s'only been the past few weeks or so I ain't been completely bed bound."

"Shit...We should'a taken you to a hospital--" John murmurs, regretful. 

But Arthur interrupts, barking out a firm rebuttal. It rattles irritably in his chest, and stifling a few wheezes, he carefully amends himself, "...No, y'all did the right thing. Use your head Marston, you know I was shot right?"

"Yeah, Charles said."

"Right, an' it was the O'driscolls, the whole thing was an ambush from the start. Taking me to the hospital might as well have put a target on all'a our backs, they would'a known almost exactly where to look."

"I guess…" John mumbles, not entirely convinced, but neither of the mind to dispute it. 

"There's no 'I guess' about it Johnny." Arthur replies gravely, "They wanted me as bait to lure out Dutch. Heard 'em say as much while they tryna bag me. Which leads me to think they don't know exactly where we are…but they caught our scent, which means they're close." 

"...Shit."

"Shit indeed." and leaning forward, voice low, but firm, Arthur does his best to impress upon John the looming severity of their situation, "So with that in mind, I think it's about time we figure out a plan to get you an' your family out for good, ain't no time to waste. An' I wanna loop Hosea in on this as well, I don't want…we can't leave him, I won't." he wavers then, distress chewing on his vocal chords. The thought of allowing Hosea to stay, to see him give the rest of his life away to a man, a cause that would give him nothing in return, well it hits a little too close to home. And Arthur has to hope that somehow this is the better choice. That surely Hosea would be happier with him, with them, wherever they may end up running to. 

John at least, seems to agree, replying with a resounding clarity, as though even entertaining such a notion is an impossibility, "Of course we ain't leavin' him, don't you worry about that. Christ, if I had half a clue it was this bad…Shit, ain't no point dwelling on it now. You talked to Hosea yet?" 

"Nah, I'm gonna call him next, I'll let you know what he says alright?" 

"Uhuh…and you sure it wouldn't be easier for us all to meet?" John asks dubiously. "I know you ain't yourself right now, but how bad can it be? Look, I don't give a rat's ass what you look like, an' Hosea, well he's just gonna be happy to see you."

A question to which Arthur replies in silence, as to be expected. 

Nevertheless, it still doesn't prevent John from heaving out a belaboured sigh, but he doesn't push the point. Too well acquainted with his older brother's unassailable tenacity, to waste good time on fighting it. Well, so he had thought that is, until Arthur goes and proves him wrong. 

"I…yeah. We should meet. We all gotta be a part of this decision, s'not fair if any one of us ain't there to decide it." 

And flabbergasted, part of John itches to tease out a reaction, needle the man over turning soft as a baby's cheek or some other such thing, if only so that he might be received with a familiar snap of anger, something he at least knows how to react to. But this…this weariness, if he can call it that, it leaves him uncomfortable, restless. It leaves him sweating under the spotlight, an actor given his cue and yet with no lines left to speak. Under the pressure, John eventually muddles out some kind of response, "I ok, sure, just um...lemme know the day. I'll tell Abigail, see about getting someone to sit for Jack."

"Sounds good." Arthur answers dully. And then another lull settles itself between them, but this time for entirely different reasons. Arthur, fighting to broach the question, sat like vinegar on the tip of his tongue, "So, I uhh…how's Dutch since I been gone?" 

"You sure you want to talk about Dutch?" John rejoinders dryly. 

"…No, but tell me anyway." 

"Well…he's been off." John replies slowly. "I ain't seen him much to be honest, he's been real…reclusive, acting all paranoid. He's always holed up in the office, don't open the door for no-one." a pause then, before in a small voice, he adds, "He did ask about you and the…well the money."

Money. 

It is, entirely wrong thing to say.

Ferocious in his anger, Arthur is initially rendered all but speechless. Any words swallowed up by such violent disbelief. Appalled that Dutch would even possess the fucking balls to ask such a thing, and yet somehow he finds himself expecting nothing less. And for once in his life, Arthur finds that the anger seething within is for his own sake, because goddammit he deserves better than this. And so he spits out, "Money….there weren't no fuckin' money! I was lucky to leave with my goddamn life an' all he's worried about is that shit? I should'a known, I should'a--" 

But then he stops. Hunching over as though having received a sharp punch to the gut, the air drains from him, lungs punctured. And now, much like a ship with her hull breached, Arthur takes on water fast. Held captive, he flails uselessly, yielding entirely to panic. 

His phone forgotten, vaguely, he can hear a tinny commotion bleating out of its speaker, John no doubt getting himself into a state. But Arthur can't exactly occupy himself with that right now. Lungs flooded through, tipping him under, he fervently paws at his chest, fingers scrabbling, seeking blindly to plug that non existent hole inside, to staunch the flow so that he might gasp but a few mouthfuls of precious oxygen, all before becoming submerged entirely. 

Fingers numb, clumsy, it doesn't work, of course it doesn't. So Arthur resorts to then massaging his ribcage with the butt of his hand, it helps a little, not much. But It dilates his airways, just enough for some oxygen to trickle through, and gulping it down, eyes weeping, he manages, by the skin of his teeth to reign it all back in. And with a sodden retching, he expels what is left into the cuff of his sleeve, it tastes bitter, like copper. 

Eyes closed, ears thumping in the silence, Arthur waits. Once he is at least part way convinced that the ordeal is over, he looses a quivering sigh. 

And now, eyes still pinched shut, unwilling to witness exactly what is staining his shirt, Arthur decides simply to remove it. He blindly bunches it up and tosses it down to the floor somewhere. Chest shivering, he then cracks his eyes open, cautiously twisting around in search of his discarded phone. He spies it, nested snugly amidst the tangle of blankets. He tugs the pile over, draping one over himself, before then returning it to its place at his ear, catching the tail end of John's frantic babbling, "--Hey, hey easy! Arthur, you there? Arthur? Shit. Look, don't get yourself worked up, it don't matter alright! Don't think about him, just breathe, yeah? In and out, nice and easy--" 

"...Christ alive, stop will ya...m'here." he interrupts, voice wavering, intermittent as the warbling scratch of a record needle atop a deformed disk of vinyl. 

"Arthur?" 

"Who…else would it be dumbass?" he grinds out, this time with a little more bite. "Ain't…gonna have to worry 'bout breathing...so much as going deaf, with you yammering in my ear."

"Well how 'bout you worry about both! Good god, the hell was that Arthur?" John caterwauls, yowling with all the snippy indignation of a tomcat with its tail stood on. 

"S'nothin'. So just leave it will ya?" Arthur gripes. Before then sighing, "Look, just...I know alright. But please, just leave it."

"...Right."

Silence then hangs uncomfortably between them, strung thin and tight. Arthur is the one to eventually snap its gossamer thread, in a voice that is still, similarly immaterial, "Look, I best be goin'...I'll call you later?"

"Sure. Just, be careful. Don't go pushing too hard, alright?" John replies, uncharacteristically soft. 

"Wouldn't dream of it. Talk soon." 

"Yeah. Talk soon, brother."

The line cuts dead, and Arthur slumps with it, as though his strings too have been cut. 

Fuck, that was a mess. 

Groaning, wiping his hand, slack, down his face, Arthur can't help but think that could have gone better. But then…it certainly could have gone much worse he supposes. 

In any case, one down, one to go. And with no desire to linger on pretense, Arthur doesn't even bother to clean himself up, nor to gather the soiled shirt, with the evidence of his coughing, still burning a hole in its sleeve. Instead he dials again, waits for the line to pick up. 

"Hosea?" 

"...Arthur? Oh my boy! It's so good to hear you. Charles kept it touch, but it's not the same, leaves one imagining all kinds of dreadful things when the news isn't coming straight from the horse's mouth." 

His words rushing out, it's strange to Arthur's ears, for he speaks without pretense, clearly overjoyed. All as though nothing has passed at all, as though Arthur hasn't been deliberately cloistering himself this entire time, as though he hasn't been an obtuse and self serving ass for being too afraid to even pick up the line and call until now. 

And whilst Arthur warms to hear Hosea's voice, he can't deny the commensurate sense of remorse, like an ice pick hammering slow into his chest, it's spike, burning cold. Remorse, for having been a source of torment and concern to the man in these past few months, and in some kind of way, for even getting into this situation in the first place, for being so stupid as to walk right into that vipers nest, to get himself shot for it, all on Dutch's word. 

It makes him feel undeserving to even share conversation with Hosea truthfully, or to receive his delight in hearing Arthur's voice after all this time. And there's not many words that could even resolve such a thing in Arthur's mind, although an apology certainly isn't out the way. 

"I know 'Sea…I'm real sorry, you gotta believe that. I just couldn't make myself…and I just didn't want to make you worry no more than you had to. Thought it would be worse somehow, if you knew how bad it was, thought it was the least I could do to spare you that in some way."

Arthur omits of course that his own misguided pride factored somewhat into that decision, his reasons not entirely selfless in that regard. But Hosea, unvexed by Arthur's shoddy justifications, simply takes it all at face value, trusting Arthur at his word. It sows yet another seed of squirming discomfort, the guilt growing ripe in his stomach. 

"Hey, it's ok, we're talking now aren't we?" Hosea reassures, gentle. Jostling Arthur back into the present. "That is all that matters. So tell me, how are you, how are things?"

"It's been…uh, it's been." Arthur exhales uselessly, unsure exactly on how to broach well...any of it, the stewpot of fear and confusion, anger, and defeat, how to condense it into something digestible, something that won't leave Hosea worrying, like a dog at a bone. 

But apparently, his words offer little by ways of reassurance anyway, for Hosea responds sombrely, "Well that doesn't sound good, best be out with it son."

"I…well it's been hard. Not knowing what to do with myself I guess...that an' admitting there's not much I can do with myself." Arthur initially offers up. Then adding, for his own assurance more than anything, "I uh, I've been tryin' though, to get better. Tryna talk more about…things, y'know?"

"Things huh?" Hosea replies blandly. "Care to be a mite less…confounding? Or should I get the tea leaves out, maybe consult with the divinities up in the sky, see if they'd explain what on earth you mean?" He teases, clearly speaking in jest. As always taking immense delight in winding Arthur up, nice and tight. Anyone else and he would likely snap in retort, but as it's Hosea, Arthur lets it pass with only a somewhat disgruntled huff. 

"Oh shut it, I'm getting there. I told Charles, 'bout everything. 'Liza, Issac. What I, what I tried to do afterwards." 

Clearly, it is not what Hosea expected, for that earlier mirth in his tone dissipates much like a plume of smoke, snatched by a gust of wind. "...You did? Well how'd he take it?" 

"He ain't run off screaming yet…so, guess that's something." Arthur mumbles. it is a flimsy attempt at humour, and he chides himself for it afterwards, not wishing to dampen the truth of it. "No, he's been...well, far more understanding than he has any right to be. Don't know how I would'a made sense of any of this without him, honestly."

A light cough teases itself out of his throat, and Arthur then works his way to his actual point lost in all of this, "An' I guess I wanted to talk to you about it too? 'cause it feels like I ain't ever properly apologised for what I did back then, or even asked if it was somethin' you, you wanted to talk about. 'Course I understand if you don't, in which case forget I ever said anythin'. I just…I, well…" Suddenly self conscious, an insect trapped in a jar, Arthur wonders why he ever set himself up to get caught in the first place, part of him trying now to conjure some harebrained scheme that might get him out of this predicament. But, evidently not before Hosea has his word on it. 

"Hey, hey, hold up. Now, what's brought all this on son, what's going on?" he asks, with an uncanny sense that there is more to this than merely a benign and spontaneous admission. It causes Arthur to pull a face, because of course Hosea would know to pick at the threads, to peak behind the words that he left unspoken, the flagrant omissions of truth he so eagerly hides behind. 

And so it is with some trepidation that he replies, "I, I wanna make amends. An' I guess I'm scared that…" Scared that what? This might be his last chance? Scared that alone, that without his family by his side he won't be able to face the rest of this, to face himself? "I just don't want to lose any of you is all, I wanna make things right." he says instead. Unable still to speak the whole of it, to reveal the open plains of his fears, painted in red, in the blood that still lines the column of his throat, the blood sticking to his shirt sleeve.

"Well you needn't worry about that one bit. I ain't going anywhere son." Hosea replies firmly. "And about all those things in the past, ain't nothing to apologise for. I'm sorry that you even thought you had to, Arthur."

"Yeah but…it ain't just me I'm hurting by bein' like this." Arthur frowns, worrying his lip. "back then, now…I'm just hurting you, an' everyone else all over again."

"Hey, this wasn't your fault Arthur. You got shot. The only ones to blame are those bastards that done it, you understand? And before, well that wasn't your fault either--" 

"How--" Arthur interjects. For clearly it was his fault, no-one else tipped those pills down his throat. 

But Hosea cuts right back in, hard and fast, "Hey, now just let me finish. Look, would you blame me, knowing that when Bessie passed, I chased her down into the grave, only that my poison of choice was a bottle in each hand?" asking pointedly. 

"...No, you was grieving, you lost the love of your life, it ain't the--"

"No, it is the same Arthur." Hosea snaps, only to then regretfully remeasure his tone. "See, sometimes we do hurt the ones we love. Not by choice, but that hurt, those scars still exist all the same. Now you can let those wounds fester, let them infect everything good 'till there's only resentment and hatred left, or you can work to heal them together." he then adds, "Look son. I should'a talked to you 'bout this a long time ago. Part of me knew that it still ate at you…that you still felt responsible for what happened. But I was too much of a coward to admit it. I suppose because it would mean admitting to my own guilt as well." 

Words that leave drop like rocks, one by one into his stomach. Arthur replies uneasily, "...What do you mean?"

To which Hosea answers, "I should have known Arthur. I should have recognised the pain you were enduring, knowing full well how it had felt to endure it myself. If I had done something, if I had intervened sooner…maybe, well maybe it could have all gone different." his tone bitter, "Maybe I could have saved you from repeating quite so many of my own mistakes." 

Dumbstruck, Arthur just sits there, receiver humming its white electricity down his ear. "Hosea. I'm...you did your best. I ain't ever gonna blame you for that." And when no reply rises to meet him Arthur adds, somewhat indignant, "An' hell your best was still a damn sight better than everyone elses! Even when I made it clear I weren't looking to be helped, you were the only one that still did try, that did look out for me, 'stead of avoiding me like I was some kind'a plague, as though my misery was somehow contagious. An' you was the only one there afterwards, the only one I wanted…the only one I trusted. So don't you ever…you saved me Hosea." Panting slightly, chest tight from the exertion, Arthur shuts his mouth, wills the man silently to speak. 

"I, thank you son. I just…see I made it my duty to look out for you boys, and I know no man is perfect, but doesn't change the fact that I failed you Arthur, or how grievously, I can't help still but think that."

"Well I'm telling you, you didn't." Arthur shoots back stubbornly. "Hell, I'm still here ain't I? And that's thanks to you, not just by what you did back then, but all the times since as well. All the times you've ever made sure to sit me down and talk, when you listened and offered your advice, all the times you shown that you care." he then pauses, voice softer," Look…I understand something of holding onto regrets far longer than is healthy or even logical to do so. But these days I'm realisin' that there ain't no changing the past. All we can do is try to move on from it, that an' make damn sure never to repeat it." 

And this time his words at least seem to carry their weight, for Hosea doesn't refute his point. It is progress at least, even if his reply might still be a touch subdued. 

"That is certainly true." and then, with a slight more gumption, he adds, "Thank you Arthur. Seems you've gone and wisened up all without me even knowing, giving me some stellar and much needed counsel myself."

"Yeah, well someone's got to." Arthur grumbles half heartedly. 

And with that, this chapter for now, written to its end, raw edges tied up, and stitched back together, Arthur asks, voice small, "Look...um, I called John earlier, was hoping we could all meet up an' talk? Uh jus' catch up on everything that's been happening, y'know. Would you…?"

"Why, of course!" Hosea's voice bouncing down the phone in its eagerness, an overwhelming about turn from just moments ago, it wrangles a lopsided smile from Arthur, before the man reels it back in with a concerned, "that is, only if you're up to it?" 

"Hmm…s'ppose." Arthur sighs theatrically, "Reckon I can squeeze y'all into my rather packed schedule, how 'bout next Saturday?" It's not much, but a small show of humour helps to glaze over some of his anxiety on the matter. To tamper down on the prickling urge to still guard himself from the ordeal of being witnessed, observed. 

Before he can think much further into it, Hosea replies genially, oblivious, "Saturday hm? Well I'll have to cancel my lunch date with the Queen of Sheba…but I suppose that'll have to stand. You're on."

"Sure, well...send her majesty my regards." Arthur replies with a little flourish, chuckling. And with that, they say adieu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief commentary. Figured amongst all this, with Arthur slowly coming to terms with his past it would be prudent to have this conversation between him and Hosea. 
> 
> To give Hosea a chance to unburden himself from some of the guilt he also likely feels.
> 
> And next chapter they'll be actually meeting up, and finally there will be just a morsel of plot:)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles can hear Arthur approaching, he has to resist the urge to stand, to react in any kind of way that would not read as unaffected nonchalance. So he remains seated on the sofa, shifting over enough to provide him the space to sit. But he does watch. Smiling imperceptibly at Arthur's impromptu transformation.
> 
> Of course, Charles doesn't question it. He hadn't felt the need when Arthur had asked to receive a haircut, nor when he had asked to borrow Charles' razor this morning. It needn't be exposed. They both know why Arthur needed to do this, to take some kind of control, some responsibility over such things. To hold himself accountable for the attention and care paid to his body. And otherwise, to construct a kind of flimsy armour, a protective barrier that might at least buffer some of the shock the others will likely feel when first seeing him.

Preparing for the visit becomes a somewhat nerve wracking affair. Arthur determined to at least do the service of making himself somewhat presentable before the arrival of everyone else. 

And so, the morning of, he enlists Charles to cut his hair, just a snip off the ends, enough to let it lie a little neater off his shoulders. For a self confessed amateur, like most things Charles is a deft hand at it, attentive and gentle, Arthur finds himself practically purring at the contact. A soothing balm, it does much to help lull some of the agitation writhing in his stomach, but like all good things, it ends too soon. Signalled by a light dusting of his shoulders, paired with a firm squeeze. Arthur lets go of a rumbling sigh, before manoeuvring himself stiffly up and out of the kitchen, their impromptu little hair salon, paying Charles with a light peck on the cheek before ambling down to the bathroom. 

Door closed, Arthur knows he could very easily have asked Charles to give him a shave as well. Probably would have enjoyed it far more than he would be willing to admit, the coarse grain of Charles' palms, brushing against his face, his sturdy fingers, cupping and twisting his jaw, revealing his neck, razor's edge pressed to the thundering rapids of his pulse…Christ, flush rising in his cheeks, Arthur hasn't allowed space for such thoughts since that night at the carnival. Yet another aspect of their relationship to suffer at the hands of this blighted injury. 

Sighing, Arthur sets such thoughts aside. He shan't allow himself to dive into distraction just now, for this is too important. This moment, marking the first time Arthur has truly looked at himself in the mirror since…all of this. Unveiling the truth that he has been so keen to avoid. Not that he made a habit of observing his reflection prior to this, if ever he could help it. But now…well, it feels different. 

He can't truly put words to it, feeling something like a blanketed object of furniture might, standing vigil in an abandoned house. Long forgotten by its owners, lost not only to them but himself, existing without ownership, without purpose. Barely able to recall what he looks like under his cover, or even what he might ever have been used for. Perhaps he was a plush armchair, or a spindly coat rack, perhaps he was a bookshelf. Arthur can't remember, finds he doesn't want to. For maybe pulling away the veil will reveal…nothing at all. See, maybe he stopped existing all together, and what is left is only the space he once inhabited. 

Disquieted, such thoughts skitter under his skin like spider's legs and Arthur has to forcibly remind himself that this moment is not something to fear. The mirror is not some kind of enemy to him, it does not judge, does not condemn. No it is Arthur himself that projects such cruelties, the vile and squirming compulsion to tear himself down, to mock and berate the image he sees before him. 

The mirror, it is just a mirror. 

And regardless of whatever may be reflected back to him today, Arthur must also remind himself that the image is just a piece of his picture, not its whole. 

Whilst he undoubtedly will still be revulsed by what he sees, even more so than would be habitual, it shouldn't matter to him. No, it is the self that lays inside that should concern him. For this is the source of true and meaningful change, the way to becoming the kind of person he might one day find himself proud to look upon. 

Hating his body, it does nothing, changes nothing. He needn't adore it, parade it as though some gaudy talisman, some decorative ornament. But he should at least accept it as a part of himself, should treat it with a care and respect. Or perhaps even just reacting to it in ambivalence could be enough to hope for. But of course, in order to do so, he first will need to actually look. 

And so, with nothing but himself holding him back, Arthur inches towards the polished sheet of glass. Pale and still, it is filled with a lambent glow, the liquid silver of moonlight spread atop motionless waters. Then Arthur steps in, filling it with himself. 

And he feels…nothing. 

Devoid of any emotion, any connection to this stranger returning his pensive gaze. They stare at one another for a few minutes, in silence. 

And once he has shaved, trimming back that unruly mess, clinging to him like sedgy moss and lichen to a cliff face, Arthur again looks, expecting some flash of revelation. Turning his face, this way and that, trying to uncover some sense of attachment to the collection of features presented before him. Of course Arthur recognises this as himself, he knows the eyes, knows the slight crookedness, the bump at the bridge of his nose, broken and scarred both in the same bar fight. The barren patch on his chin, where hair still refuses to grow. Yet he finds that there is more he doesn't know. The pocked hollows of his cheeks, the inflammation around his eyes, whites stained pink, miniature cracks filled in blood. Then, the almost purple hue to his skin, pallid, splotchy. 

And now, well, his whole mindset turns on its head. For Arthur feels almost bound to his reflection. Simultaneously fascinated and revulsed by this new found visage all at once. Compelled to look, possessed even, by the rampant need to uncover himself entirely, Arthur grapples with his shirt, roughly tugging it over his head so he might see the rest of it. And this, somehow is worse. For his body…well it speaks far more directly of the damage done to it. The wasting of muscle, of fat for more disconcerting when presented like this. His face is his face, but this, it barely looks human. 

Stomach turning, Arthur doesn't even know where to start. How he might even begin trying to consolidate the images of his separate selves, internal and external. As though reuniting them both might offer some solace, some remedy to the dire revelation that despite his gunshot having largely healed, Arthur is surely getting worse not better. Weaker not stronger, less of a person not more. But, with the more he looks, the more he sees, the more these two halves of himself become disparate things, pulled apart, stretched like taffy, muddled beyond all recognition. 

Mortified, his fingers first are drawn to his side, prodding morbidly at the puckered tissue cleaving his torso in two, a plunging ravine, plugged with balled up paper, lumpy, ugly, bulging strangely at the seams. 

His eyes then stray frontwards, examining his chest, the concave space carved out below his sternum, contradicted by the distended paunch of his stomach. He awkwardly twists, revealing the splayed fingers of his ribs. Then, just for good measure he peers over his shoulder, the knuckles of his vertebrae, peeking out to greet him, appearing like a string of buttons pushed through the closures of a shirt. And his shoulder blades, his elbows, his knees, all of it resembling a tangle of wire hangers wrapped inside a plastic bag, all sharp edges, poking out from beneath taught and translucent skin. 

It's too much. He can't do this. 

How can he show this to anyone? How is he not already dead in the ground? He doesn't know what to feel, nor how to feel it. And somewhere...somewhere amidst the dread, the blinding horror, Arthur recognises anger. An implacable disaffection towards his body for doing this to him, for having betrayed him so thoroughly, so absolutely. Because Lord knows how exactly is he meant to drag around this fucking luke warm corspe, to pull its strings, acting out like everything is fine. 

He shouldn't have agreed to meet, that much is categorically clear. And yet, he must. For there is no longer a choice in the matter. Hosea, if he hasn't already left by now, will be doing so shortly, arriving in no less than a couple of hours, and John, he'll be appearing at some point with Abbie as well. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fu--Head spinning, Arthur does the only thing he can. He clamps down on his own untethered panic hard and fast, smacking it into submission, beating it until it's cowering remains can be chained and locked away. And then, only then, does Arthur let out a trembling sigh. Gathering himself back together, continuing to get ready for the day. 

***

In a daze, he showers, dries himself, dresses. Making sure to adorn as many layers as is reasonable, to at least cushion some of the hard edges of himself. And then pulling on his jeans, still a tiresome endeavour, but no longer impossible, Arthur is then obliged to tuck it all in, to pad the lost inches that had used to press against the waist band. And still it is not enough, necessitating a belt as well, he can't help but find some wan amusement in how ridiculous it all is, mostly though, he just feels sick to his stomach. 

But, that is it, the last of it and with nothing left to do, Arthur gives himself a cursory once over, absently tucking back his hair behind his ears, only for it to spring jauntily back over his forehead, too short to now hold in place. Sighing, he consigns to defeat and leaves the bedroom. Hobbling down the hallway to join Charles in waiting for their guests.

***

Charles can hear Arthur approaching, he has to resist the urge to stand, to react in any kind of way that would not read as unaffected nonchalance. So he remains seated on the sofa, shifting over enough to provide him the space to sit. But he does watch. Smiling imperceptibly at Arthur's impromptu transformation.

Of course, Charles doesn't question it. He hadn't felt the need when Arthur had asked to receive a haircut, nor when he had asked to borrow Charles' razor this morning. It needn't be exposed. They both know why Arthur needed to do this, to take some kind of control, some responsibility over such things. To hold himself accountable for the attention and care paid to his body. And otherwise, to construct a kind of flimsy armour, a protective barrier that might at least buffer some of the shock the others will likely feel when first seeing him. 

And despite the evidence of his sickness, the revealed plains of his face that had previously been obfuscated by his beard, his limp curtain of hair, Charles can't help but continue smiling. For he knows this isn't some fix-all, not in the slightest. But to see Arthur like this, even if it is but an echo of how he had been, all before everything went to hell in a handbasket, it is enough. It is enough to see him alive, to see him standing, walking, even with the cane, after months of fearing that none of this would even be remotely possible. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks gently. Patting at the sofa cushion, encouraging Arthur to get comfortable. 

"So, so. I mean I wanna see 'em, I do. Just…still nervous is all. Don't know what to expect." Arthur fidgets, wiping his hands in an anxious gesture down his pant legs. 

"I know. I know that they are all very excited to see you, and that in itself probably is quite daunting. But try not to worry, and don't feel like you need to pretend for them. If you get tired, if you need a break at any point just let me know, they'll understand."

"Sure...thank you." Arthur replies tightly, his complexion sickly, sweating, clearly still tied in knots. Sighing, Charles leans lightly into his side, resting his head onto Arthur's shoulder, hand travelling slowly up and down his arm, seeking to unravel some of the tension there. And Arthur opens his mouth as if to say something else, but is then interrupted by a brisk rapping on the door. It knocks the wind right out of him, mouth snapping shut, he glances over to it, eyes wide. And Charles, with a sympathetic squeeze of his knee, rises to answer the call. 

***

Frozen in place, Arthur waits, eyes watchful. The door opens, Charles says something in greeting, vanishing from view momentarily as he ushers their first guest in, Hosea. They clap together in a robust hug, before then, conversing in low tones. All whilst he remains, held in chains by both in eagerness and dread alike. 

Sat there, the indecision is paraletic. See, he longs to stand, to walk the distance and greet Hosea for himself, properly. But to do so would proclaim his disability, would announce it boldy, without pretense, and Arthur doesn't know if he's quite ready for all that. But then to remain seated would surely be worse…insinuating that he is incapable even of standing, let alone walking. Either that or he's just too fucking lazy to get off his ass, and well, he refuses to entertain that. 

So, with enough thought on the matter and with the two of them still quite distracted, Arthur plants his feet steady, then leaning heavily into his cane, swings himself up, and totters over. For a few moments he hangs awkwardly to the side, still invisible to them both. That is until an involuntary cough escapes, breath squeezing out of him from the effort of holding his torso upright for so long. 

It startles them both apparently. Charles, jumping out his skin, he spins around to face him, his brow instantly knitting in concern. "Arthur! What are you doing?" fussing, his hands twitch, flexing at his sides, fighting against the urge to physically intervene. 

And Arthur, despite the tightening in his chest, does his best to pass it off as no big deal, easy, breezy, "Well, y'all was taking so long I wanted to come over an' see what all the fuss was about." smiling weakly, it mirrors the paleness in his eyes, fooling no-one. Lips pressed. Charles is clearly not entertained, but nor does he challenge. Instead, he steps graciously aside, allowing Hosea to fully cross over the threshold. 

Then finally Arthur is able to see him. The same as ever. His hair, dusty blonde, neatly swept back. His narrow face cracking into a wide smile, to reveal the craggy plains of it fully, and of course, his favourite striped scarf wrapped steadfastly around his neck. 

It's a fine sight and Arthur, he smiles right back. For a moment all his pain forgotten, dropped to the curb as he all but propels himself into Hosea's arms. Locking his arms around his back, face buried into his shoulder. All the while, mumbling incoherent apologies down his ear. To which Hosea chuckles, a loose hand trailing through Arthur's hair as he carefully peels them both apart. And now, hand on one cheek, Hosea gives him a thorough once over. 

"Now let's get a look at you, hm?" Eyes gliding over him, efficient, unwavering, whatever Hosea is thinking is evidently to remain sealed behind vault doors. Nevertheless, it leaves Arthur faltering somewhat, uncertainty tugging at his features. Fatigue too now nipping at his ankles, threatening to cast him down. He rocks on his heels, cane knocking against his knee as he fights to regain his balance. And without missing a beat, Hosea places a steadying hand on Arthur's shoulder, holding him still, all while simply stating, "It's good to see you son, looks like Charles has been taking good care of you." and then, to the entire room he announces jovially, "Now, c'mon, I don't know about anyone else but these old bones could use some rest, how about we sit?" 

***

John arrives soon after, entering upon the rest of them in a flurry. Apologising profusely for his tardiness, explaining that Jack had come down with some kind of stomach bug in the early hours of this morning, hence Abigail's absence, as she had stayed behind to take care of him. 

Charles nods sympathetic, pulls him up a spare chair, and John sits himself, finally catching a glimpse of Hosea and Arthur, both huddled on the sofa like a pair of old crones. He does his best not to flinch, to in any discernable manner take pause at Arthur's appearance, nor comment on the wide eyed expression with which Arthur greets him. Instead simply leans over awkwardly, gives him a clumsy thump on the thigh, before stating roughly, "S'good to see you in one piece, Morgan."

It seems to melt some of the frigidity in his bones, for Arthur nods, still fails to hold eye contact for much longer than a second or two though, glancing away to the middle distance, just askew of John himself.

But with greetings provisionally out of the way, they all get down to brass tacks. Firstly filling in Hosea on their intent to leave behind this place, and Dutch too if it is to come down to that. And for a man hearing it all for the first time, he takes in relatively good grace, at least as far as the others can tell. Charles…well, he has his own suspicions, but he shall set out to voice those when the time is right. In any case, the discussion then forges onwards, venturing into the territory of what they might do, where they might go. 

They need to leave the bayous certainly, to cast their line, find somewhere flung far out of the O'driscolls reach. Cutting west seems like the most logical answer, that is assuming Colm's hold still presides primarily in Chicago. It's just the question of whether they pitch their hopes in the northwest, perhaps even eeking their way over to Canada and British Columbia. Or if they stay south, hugging the border that way, somewhere along New Mexico. 

Both have their fair share of pros and cons. Canada holds its appeal, but the process of applying for citizenship would likely take far too long. There's the issue of work permits, not to mention the unsavoury truths such pencil pushing and bureaucratic hoop jumping might shake loose. Primarily, that if it came to light any of them had a criminal past, well…it surely wouldn't be good. 

New Mexico on the other hand, would be more accessible, not to mention more affordable, however the opportunities for John and his family, for little Jack would be quantifiably slimmer. Not to mention, Arthur…well, he has plenty of his own misgivings concerning that particular venture. For he can't shake the fear that because of him, they'd all be painted with a mark on their backs, lest he brush shoulders with former contacts, old faces that might well recognise him from his near two decades of running contraband over the border along that way. 

So then, somewhat stuck, they consider the merits of the Midwest. And whilst it is undeniably closer to the hornets nest, it is a land that could absorb them plenty easily, be it the sprawling country in the Dakotas or even further out into Wyoming. In any case, whatever their choice, disappearing themselves in either situ would be no issue, that much is certain. Not to mention, with enough metropolitan centres dotted about as well, it would still allow Abbie to gain her teaching qualifications and might facilitate a brighter future for Jack too. 

It seems perhaps the most balanced bet to take, they all agree, even if the most unexpected. And then, it is at this point they end up setting down the discussion, with the day, now drawing into evening. 

John excuses himself for a cigarette, and Charles eagerly snaps up his loose invitation for any abiding company. It causes Arthur to throw over a curious look, but no more than that. And Charles, vaguely guilty, offers a small glance in return, before then trailing after John's bowlegged stride, joining him out onto the porch. 

John lights him up, and for a while though both stand in silence. It's not awkward entirely, but it is a rare occurrence for them both to share the same space when unaccompanied by the binding glue that is their respective partners. 

Clearing his throat, casting the first stone, Charles asks, "Any news from Abigail about Jack?"

"Huh?" John replies dumbly, in the midst of flicking out his spent butt, to then seamlessly alight a new one. It takes a moment longer for him to cotton on, "Oh right, yeah, he'll be ok. Still running a fever, but ain't puking no more, just sleeping it off by the sounds of it."

Humming, Charles takes another drag. Not entirely certain why he's doing this, but he pushes on, "So...what do you think of all this? Moving?" 

Squinting, John takes another inhale before entertaining his reply. "I dunno. Won't believe it till it's done I suppose." he sighs, scuffing his boot, "But it's the right thing…I think. We all gotta move on with our lives, an' Dutch…well he ain't the type that would let any of us choose what that means without his say-so. So we gotta cut loose, I guess. That's just the way it is."

"Sure. I think it will be good. Hard…but freeing. A fresh start for all of us."

"That about sums it." John agrees conversationally. Another beat and then, "Well...I best be on my way, gonna pick up some medicine for Jack on my way, don't want to leave it too late."

Charles nods mute, before then blurting, "What about Arthur?" 

"Huh, what about him?" John answers, brow furrowed. 

"I…uh, I just, you've seen him now. What do you think?" he presses, urging John to bite down on the line that he is throwing. 

"I uhh…I dunno what that means." 

It misses. And Charles has to fight the urge to kick John in the shin for it, for surely he is not this dense. But there's no time to test such notions, so he just speaks it plainly, "I'm worried about him. You haven't seen it but he can barely walk, barley stand. And his coughing...it's bad, John. I'm worried that moving us all...well I'm worried he won't be up to it." 

And John finally grasps what Charles is insinuating. Suitably rattled, he hisses, "Jesus Christ, what are you saying? That he might just up and die on us, you really think it's that bad?" 

"I don't know. But he's weak and I know he's trying to hide it. I think there's more too, more that he won't show."

Biting his lip, John steps back, brimming with a restless energy. "...Fuck. Well shit, let's just take him to hospital right now, why we wasting time talking about it?"

"Because we need to do this carefully, you know what he's like. He refuses to go yet because he fears it will endanger the rest of us. I...I'm hoping to reason with him, and I will talk to Hosea too. But…if push comes to shove, I may need your help. I just want to know that you'll be there to offer it."

"Goddammit...Of course I will, just give the word Charles."

***

Back inside, Arthur closes his eyes, flagging. He focuses his efforts, on breathing in and out, trying to ignore the knot of pressure there. His throat squeezed shut from a day of effort, a day of sitting up, and talking far more than what he has become accustomed to. 

He is aware of Hosea's presence in some kind of way. Dull, distant enough that it could be easily forgotten, slipping through Arthur's grips much like the tatters of his composure. The act of masquerading his mounting discomfort suddenly a gargantuan endeavour, one that he finds himself not much caring to entertain any longer.

As such, he leans forwards over his knees, eyes still closed, surroundings dimming even further, until all Arthur that can hear, is his own body struggling to exist, the rattle in his lungs, the whisper of air passing through his throat. It feels like all his breath is passing through a straw, a microscopic channel that he must push through each and every time, part of him longs to just reach a hand down there and force the passage open himself. 

He jolts then, dislodged from his thoughts by a steady warmth pressing into his shoulder, the low rumble of Charles' voice, muffled by the cotton wool stuffed in his ears. 

"Arthur? Are you ok, what's wrong?" 

He shakes his head, tongue heavy and voice thick as mud, manages to choke out, "...M'fine. Jus'...tired."

"Ok, let's get you some rest, do you need a hand?" Charles asks gently. 

And not much trusting his voice to carry out past his mouth, Arthur nods dumbly, allowing Charles to manhandle him, scooping his arm up so that he can lift him with the breadth of his shoulders. 

By this point, he is long gone, head lolling, legs turned to jelly. But Charles has him, and with a soft grunt he bends down, tucking his free arm under Arthur's legs, seamlessly lifting him off the ground. Addressing Hosea, twisting his neck awkwardly, he explains, "Sorry…he's still not used to being up like this for so long. I should have realised that this would happen. I'll be right back, just let me get him into bed." 

"Of course Charles, take your time." 

***

About a quarter hour later, Arthur is settled, John has left and Charles returns, setting himself back down lightly on the sofa. Unsure quite how to punctuate the silence, he offers lamely, "He's ok. That is…I mean, he's resting. With the injury, well, his stamina is far from what it was, that's all."

"That's entirely understandable." Hosea replies kindly. Then, likely regarding the wearied slope of Charles' posture, or else just the lurking worry eating at his features, he asks, "So, how are you holding up, Charles?" 

"Me? I…truthfully, I don't know." he shrugs helplessly, forcing a humourless smile. 

"Well yes, that's about par for the course I suppose." Hosea nods. And then leaning forwards, his expression thoughtful he adds, "Y'know, It might not seem it, but I reckon I can relate to at least some of what you might be feeling. I went through it too, with my other half, Bessie."

To which Charles remains politely silent. At least at first, until curiosity gets the better of him and he asks cautiously, "…What happened to her?" 

"Cancer. Was a long time ago now, it was wretched. She was in so much pain for so long, sometimes I would wonder if it was better that she might die, and be spared from such misery. Didn't help that there was nothing either of us could have done about it." grimacing, he continues, "And well, watching the one you love suffer like that, watching them disappear before your eyes 'till there's nothing left…reckon it changes you just as much as it does them. But then that's the price of love I suppose, you take a piece of them and they take a piece of you, that's just the way it goes."

"I'm sorry." Charles mumbles, unable to say much else. 

But Hosea doesn't hold him to it in the slightest, just brushes past, "No, don't be. Least we had some happy years before she went, that's what I hold on to now. You and Arthur, you don't even have that, least not yet anyway. But you will, Charles. Because I know our boy will pull through, he always does. Stubborn as a mule with a rod up its ass, and we love him for it all the same."

Smiling weakly, Charles attempts to reply in kind, proffering a feeble attempt at humour of his own, "I suppose I have you to thank for that, hm?" 

"Yes, quite. My sincerest apologies." Hosea chuckles dryly. 

And Charles provides an absentee nod, thoughts dipping, spiralling tangentially. He speaks automatically, before he can help himself, "You know, since Arthur's injury…I find myself often wondering if perhaps, if me and him had met under different circumstances, if we had kicked things off sooner, that this all might somehow have been avoided, that maybe he would have escaped this life sooner." 

A discerning pause. Then Hosea replies, "Maybe. Maybe not. It's not something you should torture yourself over Charles, believe me. Dwelling on what ifs and could be's will only ever get you nowhere fast." and with an somewhat overcast expression, he reveals, "A piece of advice for you, it's like my father once said to me, 'You stare into the fire long enough, you'll see the whole world pass you by.'" 

Charles, glances down, taking time to absorb those words. He thinks he gathers their meaning well enough, replying soberly, "Very wise."

"Hah. Yes, I suppose. Honestly, at the time, I thought it was a total crock of shit." he mutters sideways with a conspiratorial grin, it dislodges an amused huff in reply. 

"But now…" he sobers, "well maybe it's just my old age talking, but I think I'm coming to understand those words more and more with each passing day. See, there's no good living in the past, no good losing yourself in imaginings of what might be. You do that and before you know it, you're a lonely old man with nothing but the clothes on his back and his own thoughts to keep him company."

"Is that how you feel?" Charles enquires bluntly. It catches Hosea off his guard, but the man rights himself quite adeplty, only a touch ruffled. 

"I…sometimes, yes. I have regrets, like any man, decisions I would have made differently. Not that I am looking to repent. Well perhaps only in the sense that…I wish I had acquired wisdom at less of a price. And certainly, not at the price of others." 

Charles frowns, searching to ask more, but Hosea, with no need for prompting, clarifies, "Arthur for one…he's paid many a time for my own ignorance. Not that I didn't do my best. And I know he doesn't hold me to it, not in the slightest. But looking back, I certainly could have done better, could have been more aware, more attuned to what that boy needed." 

Charles however, disagrees, answering, "Hosea…You're too harsh on yourself. Even if there are certain things you wish you could have done differently, it doesn't change how Arthur thinks of you now, how much he respects you, how much he looks to you for guidance. He's told me often that he thinks of you as his father."

"Well you're very kind to say so. I certainly hope to be a better one than his real pa ever was, given the choice I would kill that man myself if I could."

A vow spoken without any hesitation, it dispels any doubt in Charles' mind that if presented with the chance, Hosea would gladly act on such words. It's unsettling strangely, to see this side of him emerge from whatever cavern it lurks within. But then it paints a picture, uncovers the shadow of a younger Hosea perhaps, a man not quite so wearied by the rigours of time, a man possessing a tongue quick and sharp as flint, with a temper just as liable to spark. Charles wonders for a moment, what he would have been like back then. 

But such idle ponderings shall remain, as they should, locked away. And instead, he offers carefully, "Arthur doesn't speak much of his parents, his childhood. I know his mother died young…" it is an open statement, Charles uncertain as to whether it is his place, his right even to enquire for further answers. 

And Hosea, sensing as much, keeps his reply simple, "Yes, Beatrice. I doubt Arthur remembers much of her truly, but he speaks of her fondly, keeps a photo of her. But what of your own parents, if you don't mind my asking?" 

And startled, part of Charles bristles, retracting instinctively. Eager to cling to the past, to keep it where it is safe, untouched and thus dormant. But then, another part of him longs to release it, just to give it the space, the opportunity to exist outside of himself. So he takes up the chance, allows the words to spill from his mouth freely, "My mother died when I was a boy, my father…with the way he drank, he may as well have killed himself. Perhaps he did, I wasn't there, didn't care to be."

Hosea nods, listening. Allowing him seamlessly to continue. 

"I...it's strange. My mother...She had so much to give, so much wonder for this world. I mourn for that almost as much as I mourn for her. The knowledge of her culture, the stories that she carried inside of her, all lost. My father however, he was a stern man. Not always cruel, just…hard. I don't think he ever really knew how to share himself with others, how to be a father, or a husband. Then…when my mother passed, we left for Chicago, and it felt much like her ghost came with us. Still occupying the empty space, still holding on, despite the ever growing distance between us."

Taking pause, Charles licks his lips, hesitant. A small chink in his armour that he would normally conceal, well…from anyone other than Arthur. But Hosea, he trusts. For as little time they have spent together, his support and council over these past few months have been an invaluable lifeline. And so he presses on, dutifully. "I've never really told anyone why I left home, but…I did, at sixteen. I had a, I suppose you would call it a crush on a childhood friend. I misread what was between us, paid for it dearly. He must have told his parents, who in turn told mine. When my father confronted me on the matter, well…I knew then and there that I would no longer find a home with him. So l left. Lived on the streets for a time. Later uncovered a talent for boxing, it gave me enough cash in hand to survive, all until I eventually got picked up by Dutch."

At which point silence sits between the two men, both of them, lost in their thoughts. Until Hosea replies softly, "None of that could have been easy son. However, I…well I hope you don't mind me saying, but I believe your mother would be proud of the man you have become. And you certainly should be proud of yourself Charles."

"Thank you…I certainly hope to someday make her proud." he replies distantly. 

And now, their conversation unmoored, it's ripples settling, Charles strikes a new course, eager to turn away from remembrances of the past for now, and to focus on the way point ahead. "Can I ask you a question? Having seen Arthur now, what are your thoughts on…him, on his condition?" 

"I...well, to answer with a question of my own, what is it exactly that makes you ask?" Hosea inquires, unapologetically cryptic. Possessing the knowledge that Charles likely already has his answer, regardless of his or anyone else's input.

And sure enough, Charles is grudgingly forced to reply, confirming as much, "I know what I think…I just, I want to make sure that my position…my bias, isn't clouding my judgement." 

"Well how about you tell me what you think, and I'll be the judge hm?" 

"Okay..." Sighing, this isn't exactly how Charles has intended for this to pan out, but he rolls with it, adjusting his trajectory accordingly, "I…well, we all know that you and John entrusted Arthur's care to me, a responsibility I would never take lightly." he waits carefully then, observing, gauging Hosea's reaction. But the man is still playing his cards infuriatingly close to the chest, and Charles, unable to read the man as he would Arthur, is obliged to continue on, "as of now, I am satisfied that his wound has healed, that the infection has passed, but…"

He falters, and finally Hosea offers a morsel in reply, "But…?" 

"But, none of that matters, because he still is sick. And as far as I can tell, he is not improving, at least not at the rate he should be. There is something more to this, and I believe he needs help if he is to recover, real help." 

"I see. Well, what's stopping us then, Arthur I presume?" 

"Yes. He…I don't want to force him, to stage some kind of intervention, but he's scared. He won't seek help if he thinks it will risk our safety. Do you…do you think you might talk to him?" Charles twists to look upon his counterpart directly now. He doesn't enjoy the notion of asking this, but he knows if any person is to get through to Arthur, it will be Hosea. 

And apparently, after giving it some intent thought the man replies, "Yes. No promises, but yes, I will talk to him."

"Thank you." 

***

Arthur wakes, groaning. Sunlight peeling back his eyelids, reaching down into the depths of his skull, scrambling the scant contents inside. 

Bleary and disoriented, he squirms, pinned under a rather indomitable sum of blankets, until finally he catches a glimpse of the clock at his bedside. The neon digits blooming in and out of focus. Twelve pm. How…? He doesn't understand. Aren't John and Hosea coming, aren't they meeting? But then why the hell hasn't Charles come to wake him up yet? Anxiety gnawing in his belly, Arthur struggles to rise, a vague irritation also creeping up on him, for having already wasted so much of the day. He needs to get ready, he needs to--But then he stops, stomach sinking. His mind, having contrived to make a fool out of him this whole time, finally it relinquishes the truth. But of course, only after having garnered plenty enough amusement from deceiving him so fastidiously. 

Hosea and John, they are here. They met yesterday, and Arthur…he must have passed out. 

Well, it worked. Feeling a veritable idiot, he sinks deep into the mattress, possessing half a mind to just slide right back into unconsciousness. But he can't. Groaning once more, with a little cursory smack to the cheeks, Arthur gees himself up, out of bed. Still in his clothes from yesterday, he can't find it in himself to care about changing, instead just stumbles out the door, down the hallway. 

***

Upon reaching the living room, Arthur catches the silvery top of Hosea's head, the man seated on the sofa, back tuned to him. John however, is nowhere to be found. 

Apprehensive, Arthur announces his presence with a little cough, "I uh...hey." 

He can see Hosea pause, presumably dog-earing the book he is reading, setting it dutifully to one side. He then twists round, arm stretched around the head of the sofa. Smiling, looking upon Arthur as though seeing the sun for the first time, as opposed to a dried up old scarecrow. He asks mildly, "Have a good sleep then, how are you?"

"Peachy." Arthur replies awkwardly, moving to rub his arm, but then stopping midway, not wishing to worsen his body's already twisted asymmetry in the process, lest he topple right over. Instead, itching to address the events of yesterday, he spouts, "Look…I'm sorry 'bout last night, didn't intend to flake out on y'all like that. It wasn't nothin', jus' get tired easier is all." forcing a ghost of a smile, he jokes, "An' well…you would know better than anyone, I never was one for making plans, always left it to you an' Dutch..." he tails off then, that name sitting heavy in his mouth. But Hosea picks up the slack quite expertly, evidently reading the turmoil written on his face. 

"It's fine son, but next time you want to escape from my prattling talk, you needn't take such drastic measures to excuse yourself, a simple word or two would suffice. Now, c'mon, take a seat, I won't bite." he teases good naturedly. 

"I…sure." and wilting, Arthur lumbers over to the sofa, carefully seating himself, so as not to disturb his fickle ailments, to avoid rousing the slumbering pain in his side and his chest. If Hosea notices it, he refrains from commenting. Instead, simply waits patiently for Arthur to find some comfort before launching into what surely is a calculated ambush. 

"So."

"...So?" Arthur shifts, chuckling nervously. 

"Talk to me. I know we spoke of a lot in that phone call, but there's also a lot we didn't speak of. I want to know how you're holding up, truthfully now."

And Arthur pauses, taking note of his tone. For Hosea speaks it purposefully. Not cold but, tacitum certainly, as though he is drawing out an explanation from a particularly uncooperative child. It leaves Arthur defensive, as though he is being lured out, baited into some kind of trap. Not to mention, it ires him somewhat that the conversation is immediately drawn to himself and his health, as if he wouldnt appreciate a goddamn break from thinking about such things for five minutes. It causes him to reply a touch cynical, snipping out, "Physically or mentally 'Sea? 'Cause its been pretty fucking abysmal on both counts."

And Hosea throws him a scornful look, penetrating Arthur's bravado as he is so accustomed, it leaves him fumbling now to pick up its pieces, "Sorry…I uh, I don't mean to be…" closing his eyes, he takes a breath, tries again. "Physically? Well, the gunshot is mostly healed, least on the surface. Still hurts inside though, and it feels weak, messes with my balance still, I mean you saw yesterday."

And apparently sated by his admission, Hosea replies, "Hm, yes. The weakness in your side is completely understandable. The muscle there, it's going to take a long time to repair. All you can do is try and keep active as you can, to build it back up again."

"Yeah…Charles has been saying as much." Arthur mumbles, still uncomfortable. 

"What about your cough?" He then prys. And Arthur realises a hair too late, there it is, the hook, the line and the sinker. And already caught, he doesn't know how at all to react, to feign ignorance, to tug at the barbed question, hoping a messy struggle will set him free of it, or to simply accept his fate, fall limp and allow himself to be tugged to shore. 

"...What about it?" he opts for ignorance, at least until he has a closer guess to what Hosea's full play is. 

"It seems to be quite stubborn, I remember it from even before your injury. Are there any other symptoms?" 

"...Other than the obvious?" deliberately asinine, he stalls. Hosea however seems content to play this game for as long as Arthur is willing, no matter that it is as laborious as drawing blood from a stone. 

For he replies calmly, "Yes, excluding the obvious."

"Tired. Ain't got much appetite…fever won't shift, but I feel cold most of the time." Arthur grates out, jaw set. 

Nodding, Hosea then adds, "Anything else? Does anything come up when you cough for example?" 

At which Arthur immediately blanches, face pinching in distress. But then he replies slow, sterile, "Liquid mostly, not always."

"Mucus?"

"Sure, sometimes." skirting around the truth, he allows himself to lie by omission. Hosea seems to catch something in it but, for whatever reason leaves it to lie. Perhaps it is that Arthur's non answer is revelatory enough, for Hosea nods, expression drawn. 

"Well, me and Charles have spoken. We think it would be best to get it checked out, by a professional--"

"--Ain't happening." 

"...Arthur," 

"No, don't you Arthur me," he replies staunchly, "You know what's at stake here just as well as I do 'Sea." 

"Yes as a matter of fact I do. Your life. Now would you shut your trap and just listen alright?" and with a taught sigh, clearly restraining the full sway of his emotions Hosea amends, "Look, I know you're worried son, but so are we. So, please just hear me out, ok?" 

And with curt nod, exhaling pointedly, Arthur makes it plain that he is listening, but begrudgingly at that. 

Whilst Hosea, brazenly ignoring such impudence, launches into his speech regardless. "Right, so we need to get you proper medical care, yes? Which means a hospital, doctors, nurses, prying questions, all of the rest of it." he spiels, listing off the veritable sum of obstructions that will undoubtedly line their path. "Which means we simply have to spin a yarn that will divert attention from the truth, that is all." 

Arthur throws him a dull look by ways of reply, to which Hosea answers in defiance, with a roguish grin, evidently dusting off the old charm.

To which Arthur frowns. Because he recognises the play, having personally witnessed it turned upon many unfortunates, during his time working jobs by Hosea's side. He remembers it all, clear as day, tasked usually to silently observe as the man sought to masterfully swindle a dour old witch out of her jewel encrusted inheritance, or else another time, during which he had turned two feuding brothers at one another, so that he might rob them both blind from right under their noses. 

But the only difference is this time, such wiles are directed at him. Hosea, before his very eyes, guilefully crafting his words into a gilded cage, disguising his carefully laid snare as a winning prize, an irresistible temptation, that Arthur would be incapable of refusing, of latching onto himself. 

It leaves an odd taste, part of him wants to destroy the words before they even leave Hosea's mouth, to deny them the chance to slither into his brain and turn his thoughts all around. But then another part reprimands himself for even considering that the man would take him for a mark, that he would happily play Arthur like a fiddle to get what he wants. 

Fuck, he doesn't know. He knows Hosea cares, even if his methods often involve a healthy pinch of deception to sweeten the pot. So Arthur continues to listen, albeit with a sustained suspicion. 

And clearly in the thick of it now, Hosea turns his words out eagerly. Eyes alight, rapacious in their appetite to concoct this impenetrable scheme he is now so set on, as though his own rampant enthusiasm might transfuse to Arthur by verbiage alone. 

"Now, any good doctor will likely want to know where and how exactly you procured such an injury to your side, I'd be concerned if they didn't ask frankly. At which point you say, it was a hunting accident. It's not entirely within the realm of disbelief, and that will be enough for us." 

Arthur hums emptily. Whilst Hosea, oblivious, whisks away, "See, the wound is healed, which suits our cause wonderfully, because as such, you technically are under no obligation to answer any questions concerning it or it's point of origin. You are going to recieve treatment for your cough, that is all. The gunshot, why it doesn't even feature into the equation, it's done! So, by that very logic, no need to get the police involved, ergo…no alerting the O'driscolls to our position."

Finished, he then offers Arthur a hearty pat on the shoulder, as though it all has been tidied away, as though Arthur has agreed to his plot despite yet even opening his mouth. Again it doesn't sit right, and Arthur makes as much clear in his reply. 

"So it's gonna be that easy huh?" He scalds, "We just waltz in, and ain't no-one gonna dig any deeper? This ain't a con Hosea, there's too much at risk! So what if there ain't no police report? The O'driscolls can still check general admissions. All they gotta do is call enough hospitals until they find which one's got an Arthur Morgan sittin' in its wings and then it's game over."

His face twists then, doggedly biting down on the wretched urge to cough, refusing to give Hosea any further ammunition to plead his case. A sour victory, the strain of it bleeds through his voice, now stretched thin and dry as a sheet of paper, "Listen, I ain't…I ain't gonna play with all of your lives like that, I would…I could never forgive myself, so don't roll it out to me like it's some…some jolly little graft like the good old days. I ain't gonna play lackey this time Hosea, not when it's my choice, my life that's putting y'all on the line."

And this time, it is Hosea's turn to blanch. "Arthur…I didn't mean...Good god, I didn't mean to insinuate anything of the like, please don't take it as such. I just…I got carried away. I thought, well I don't know what I thought." he concedes, utterly deflated. 

Sighing then, Arthur cant help but suffer the inescapable lance of remorse, for having dashed the man's hopes so absolutely. But he sticks to his guns nonetheless. "Look Hosea, I know you mean well, but…this ain't a game. At least, it ain't one I'm wiling to play, you understand?" 

"I do, of course I do son. I promise you that this is not some joke to me. Quite the contrary Arthur, I'm terrified for you, all of us are. Me, John, Charles, we all fear for your life just as much as you do for ours and I just...well, I wish you could see that, I wish that our concern could be enough to make you think twice is all."

Arthur swallows tightly then, genuinely humbled, but he can't...he can't afford to concede. "Hosea…I, I ain't taking this decision lightly, I just, well…I want to make the right choice." And closing his eyes in a sudden turn of cowardice, unable to bear witnessing the pain that his next words will surely bring, Arthur announces the horrid little speculation that all this time had been rotting inside his mind, "An' part of me, well part of me wonders if it's already too late. If the risk is even worth taking at all. Guess…guess I'm scared." he admits, voice trailing into treacherous territory, thick and laden, breaking apart. 

And Hosea pales, eyes searching, pleading, "What do you mean Arthur, tell me. Please don't make me beg."

Arthur shakes his head, "C'mon Hosea, I know what it looks like, you know what it looks like. Ain't nothing a little jaunt down to the infirmary is gonna cure." he chuckles humourlessly, hands buched over his knees. "I just…I don't wanna waste any precious time in some godforsaken hospital bed, away from all of you if it's just gonna be for naught. Not that we could even afford the bills anyway, and I ain't letting any of you get into debt over all this, no way."

"Arthur, none of that matters, please, listen to me son, we will get through this, together. Whatever happens, we all will be by your side, you know that right? You won't ever be alone." and then Hosea urges vehemently, "But this is not the time to be giving up, you need to fight son, please, it's not too late, you don't know that."

And finally, something in Arthur just cracks. Whether it it is Hosea's blatant desperation, or the bitter acceptance of his own mortality now come to light, he cannot say, but whatever it might be, quite effectively dissolves him into a jibbering wreck. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, you're right. I just…I don't know what I'm meant to do, how I'm meant to be. I don't know how to fight this, I…I don't want to…I ain't ready for it all to end Hosea, not now. I don't wanna die." eyes spilling over, Arthur doesn't even attempt to hide it, nor does he pull away when Hosea tugs him down into a firm embrace. 

"You fight it by getting better son, by facing it head on. You fight it by refusing to let this sickness rule your life any longer, by letting yourself be helped. Now, please, let us take you to a hospital."

And sobbing, shoulders heaving, he yields, "…Ok. I'll go, Hosea, I'll go."

***

The day draws itself shut, the atmosphere torpid, dull. 

After their talk Arthur finds himself feeling hollowed, unable to fully process what the future might now hold, it's course altered so drastically from what he had slowly come to accept as the end. 

He finds himself lost, mind and limbs languid, as though he has been exiled to some kind of perdition. He sees the world before him, sees Hosea and Charles seated at the dining table, his plated meal waiting to be consumed. And yet he is incapable of touching, of feeling any of it. 

The others talk, clearly doing their best to dispel the bleak and opaque pit that sits in Arthur's stead. Catetonic, he can't find the will to care. He prods mulishly at his food, fingers twitching mindlessly, and then he can feel it. Chest squeezing, he presses his lips, breathes careful and slow, hoping to snuff the tinder inside his lungs, to avoid waking the tirade from its slumber. Fingers knocking dully into his glass, he lifts it up and takes a few sips. 

A few coughs thump out of him then.

Charles pauses from eating, glances over, gaze razor sharp. And Arthur, presently too fearful to open his mouth, instead flaps his hand, a feeble gesture intended to brush off any concerns like a handful of midges, just waving it off as having swallowed his food the wrong way. 

He shuffles a mouthful of food up on to his fork, vision swirling, unspooling at the edges. He's about to take a bite, and then his throat snaps shut, the fork clattering down, the sound of it ringing dissonant in his ears. 

More coughing now, and they both are looking, conversation abandoned. 

Arthur, unthinking, stumbles to his feet, knocking his knees up into the table wood, the whole lot jolting sharply from his veering flight, he flinches. Someone, somewhere, says something, but Arthur just shakes his head, mumbling incoherent nothings in between labouring breaths, "No...s'fine, s'cuse me…just gotta, I'm gonna…go…"

And then he turns, with no clear destination at all, just the desire to be away from here tugging him along, his guiding light. The motion alone causes the world to tip over, melting into a spun up blur of colour and noise, the mess of it all trailing like fingers down his eyes. Head pounding, Arthur lurches, each breath snagging, strips of paper tearing, the sound peeling from out his throat. 

He falls then. At least he thinks he does, it's hard to tell when everything up is down, the ground or perhaps it is the ceiling, pressed hard and cold into his back. Then something yanks him, rolls him to his side, starts laying into his back, and gasping he coughs up the incursion of blood and mucus and God knows whatever else, all of it spilling out onto the floor, whilst Arthur, he cuts to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a big one. 
> 
> Arthur naturally is still struggling, caught between fight and flight, whether he ought to accept what he fears to be an inevitable death, or to fight it against incalculable odds. I figure living on the cusp of such a dire revelation, would just turn everything over. That he would be caught between these polarising ideas, bouncing from one to the other ceaselessly. Seeing himself in the mirror for the first time this chapter, also acted as a catalyst in this regard, a bitter truth that truly instilled the fear in him that he might not make it out of this alive. 
> 
> And since he doesn't know he has TB, I'm kinda having Arthur under the assumption that what he has could well be cancer, which I hope might explain at least the severity of his reactions. 
> 
> And also why he is so fearful of the hospital, not only because of the O'driscoll threat but also because in this modern setting he would likely know the tribulations of chemotherapy, the terrible price it demands in the pursuit of destroying that illness. 
> 
> And I realise his reaction after talking to Hosea may seen strange, why would he be so utterly despondent when faced with the chance of being potentially cured? Of finding answers? 
> 
> But the thing is, at this point he's found a certain solace in accepting the inevitable. Its a choice that offers finality, surety, a choice  
> that reduces all the fear and uncertainty into just one. But now, faced with the notion that he will need to be examined, diagnosed, and undergo treatment for something that he doesn't yet know can even be cured, is a whole new ocean of fear and uncertainty he must traverse. 
> 
> Both paths, of course are terrifying to face, which again is why Arthur is struggling so much with it all. 
> 
> So...yeah, that's that on that. Of course, with him collapsing, there really isn't much choice left on the matter unfortunately...
> 
> But anyway, that's it from me,  
> Bye for now x


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wakes, grotesquely disoriented. Jettisoned from unconsciousness, it is violent and unceremonious. Bursting free from the confines of that dark nothing, out into this unfamiliar place.
> 
> His eyes peel open, accosted by a pale, artificial light. It saturates everything, bleaching shadows entirely, it gives his surroundings the appearance of being vaguely irradiated.
> 
> A sentiment to which Arthur can relate. It feels as though he himself has been microwaved, brain turned to steaming slop, his eyes sizzling. And coughing, chest convulsing weakly, he cranes his neck, head heavy and ripe, squinting as he tries desperately to uncover the lay of his surroundings.
> 
> ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof it has been so long. I am so sorry.
> 
> Things have been pretty manic in the build up to the holidays, and this chapter is not quite as long as I would like. But in any case, thank you to any of those who read it, or who are still invested in this. 
> 
> Thank you x

Arthur wakes, grotesquely disoriented. Jettisoned from unconsciousness, it is violent and unceremonious. Bursting free from the confines of that dark nothing, out into this unfamiliar place.

His eyes peel open, accosted by a pale, artificial light. It saturates everything, bleaching shadows entirely, it gives his surroundings the appearance of being vaguely irradiated.

A sentiment to which Arthur can relate. It feels as though he himself has been microwaved, brain turned to steaming slop, his eyes sizzling. And coughing, chest convulsing weakly, he cranes his neck, head heavy and ripe, squinting as he tries desperately to uncover the lay of his surroundings. 

An ill-fated endeavour from the start, he abandons it quite readily. Instead, distracted, Arthur notices something tied to his face. He fumbles blindly at it, the elasticated strap catching on his hair, pinching at him, refusing to relinquish its taloned grip. And the ensuing frustration, petty as it is, unleashes something inside of him, a sense of entrapment that causes his breath to ratchet, clouding inside of the face covering, hot and clammy against his skin. Eyes darting now, pinned down by its invasive presence, he looses a doleful kind of braying, a frantic declaration of unbridled, animalistic fear. 

Body flailing by ways of reaction, the only rational way for it to process such things it seems, Arthur feels a tug of something else, raking at his skin. He yanks manically at it, the rubbery tube puncturing the soft flesh of his forearm. It smarts, the point of entry, scrubbed raw from his nails, weeping now, fat, shiny red pinheads of blood. 

Arthur scarcely even notices. 

Recalling the mask once more, he manages to yank it clumsily over his head, before then swinging his legs off the bed, landing two unwieldy feet onto tacky linoleum floor. 

Stomach lurching as he looks down, Arthur vaguely registers the absence of his own clothes, instead finding himself adorned in a papery white robe, and apparently naught else to cover his modesty. No matter, he decides. Rather, he focuses on heaving himself forward, arms trembling, bowing like saplings under the duress of his weight.

Nevertheless, wholly undeterred, Arthur continues to shift his body, inch by inch, possessed by the singular urge to escape, even if it is to tear him apart in the process. Seems all he knows these days he ponders ruefully, to cut and run when faced by such uncertainty, such panic, too weak to face much of anything alone. 

Then, as if to remind him of the fact, Arthur realises as well, that his cane is nowhere to be found. And strangely, this realisation, is the one fated to break what little is left of him, the last straw placed atop an already back breaking load. Without realising, he whines. Lost. He feels naked, stripped bare in more ways than one. Not just of his clothes now, but his independence, his ability to stand, to walk without the aid of another living presence.

It just goes further to prove that alone, he is helpless. Scarcly worth the space he occupies, scarcely even a person.

Fuck, he can't even keep his head on straight, tears threatening to spill, Arthur sniffles, brow pinching. Unable to even savor in the pitiable relief of knowing that at least no-one is present to witness this. To see a grown man reduced to such new, pathetic and humiliating lows.

And he can't shake it, the repungance he now feels, all from the stupidity of allowing himself to become so intrinsically attached to something so ridiculous, a fucking walking stick of all things. Christ, and to think that thing had started as a plaguing source of embarrassment, a little stick of mockery, only to transform slowly into something else, a sought and trusted companion over these last few weeks. 

What a joke. 

What brain rotted imbecile mourns the loss of such a thing? Him, apparently. Snarling in the face of his own idiocy, all else forgotten, Arthur again rocks on the heels of his hands, propelling himself upright by sheer force of will, fueled by the brief blaze of fury singing in his veins.

It doesn't last. 

See, it's not so much standing as it is flinging himself temporarily upright. Because as soon as he steps forward, Arthur's entire body buckles, knees collapsing from under him, he teeters forwards, and smacks heavily to the floor. 

Head clanging against the surface, Arthur loses vision with a clap, it's absence wrapping around him like a dense linen. It spreads over his eyes, bound tight, squeezing his skull, until finally at the brink of becoming entirely unbearable, the pressure releases and the world returns to him in a rush. 

Heart squeezing, blood buzzing in his fingertips, Arthur groans once again, face mashed awkwardly to the ground, saliva drooling for his lips. And for a few brief moments he struggles, until gasping, chest constricting, he is compelled to yield, resigning himself to this new lamentable position. Unable to do much of anything, lungs burning, the wound in his side devouring him whole. The summation of it all, feeling like someone is flexing their fingers inside his brain, pressing on his synapses like a concert pianist tapping out some foul, discordant melody. 

And as he lays there, trapped inside himself, Arthur works desperately to uncover, to rejoin the loose connections inside himself. But despite the continued efforts, such things remain cruelly, just outside his reach, his limbs still refusing to respond in any meaningful kind of way, toes curling, muscles cramping. Reduced to a quivering wreck, at least the floor is reassuring in its solidity Arthur decides, sinking into it.

Severed from the world, from nebulous constructs such as time, Arthur couldn't say how long it lasts, not that he cares either way particularly, content to exist, to turn to waste. Releasing himself to the notion, it is odly comforting above all else.

That is, until he discerns something...the billowing echo of footsteps perhaps, drawing closer. A herald come to usher forth the end to his plight, benovlant or sadistic in its intent, it remains yet to be seen.

Struggling, brain sloshing, eyes scrabbling about inside his skull, Arthur catches the faintest impression of movement. Then, feels a wrenching tug from under his arms, met in parallel by two iron clasps around his ankles.

Eyes bulging, caught like a worm on a hook, he squirms mindlessly, only to be rewarded with the grips around him tightening further, doubling their efforts to transport Arthur to whatever realm they have deemed fitting for the likes of him, he doesn't know. And nor does he find out. For whatever comes after that, hides behind his eyelids, veiled by a creeping descent, back down, into the abyss. 

***

When Arthur next wakes, it's dark, quiet. His mind, this time is calmer, attentive. Not so eager to pitch into a raucous fit of despair and depravity. 

He doesn't so much see as feel the presence of others there with him. Two men, faces dipped in the darkness. Whoever they are, they are welcomed, and Arthur allows his eyes to close once more, comforted by their bodies alone, his faceless guardians. 

***

Arthur wakes again. Days, perhaps years have passed. His only internal measure indicating as such is the overwhelming dryness in his throat, the sour taste lining his mouth and the definitive need to piss. 

Head twisting, he attempts to express as much to whoever it is that lurks in his periphery. It comes out in a short grunt, superseded by a sharp intake of breath, the labour of working his throat, even by forms of non verbal communication, apparently enough to unleash the surging tide swelling inside of him. 

Body folding in half, Arthur hacks into his elbow for a good few seconds, each burst swinging down, blunt and hard as a woodman's axe, slicing through his throat with comparable vigour. 

Naturally, his companion panics, crowding his field of vision, before dashing off, presumably in pursuit of assistance Arthur realises dully. Not that it matters. Expunged, he slumps back down, allows himself the indulgent mercy of sinking back, into the comfort of sleep. 

***

It is a few more days after that, according to Hosea and Charles, before Arthur can muster up sustained bouts of consciousness. It is at this point also, that he is finally introduced to his presiding physician. A formidable woman by all accounts, their first introduction led by her brisk admonishment. 

"Mr Morgan, already your reputation precedes you." closing the door behind her, she strides over to his bedside, the clack of her heels economic, punctual. Flaxen hair snapping to and fro, a tight braid snaking down her back. 

"All…good things I hope." Arthur mumbles, tongue heavy, thoughts glazed by the sum of pain medication swilling inside of him. 

Peering down, she hums before answering, "That remains to be seen. But for future reference, I would appreciate it if you listened to what your nurses have to say, for all our sakes." 

"Just keepin' them on their toes."Arthur replies mildly, equal parts terrified and amused.

"Well I'd much rather you stay off yours, you're on strict bed rest so that means no impromptu strolls 'round the ward or anywhere else for that matter." she rejoinders tartly.

Of course, she is referring to his prior attempt to stand up and walk out of here. Truthfully, Arthur doesn't remember much of it, at the time barely cognisant enough to even realise where he was. But now, well even he will admit it was not his finest moment. Asides from wasting the poor nurses time, he managed also to scare the dear life out of Hosea and Charles, when by their accounts, they had at last been admitted entry to sit as his beside, only to find him spread eagle, face down, ass up on the floor.

Arthur can laugh about it now, even if the others can't just yet. Neither of them quite yet trusting him to be let alone to his own devices, lest they have another harebrained escape attempt on their hands. As such, they both take it in turns to guard over him. As of now, it is Charles sat at his side. And as if to make a point the man throws him a withering look, murmuring, "You hear that Arthur? Doctor's orders."

And with a tight nod tossed over to Charles by the good doctor, she affirms, "Mhm, well said." then, eyes narrowing, "So…who might you be exactly?" 

To which Charles replies carefully, hackles raised, "A…friend." 

"Uhuh." She clicks her tongue, unconvinced. But then drives on, all as though it were nothing. "Ok, well, I'm gonna need to check you over Arthur, you came in after collapsin', that right?" 

Arthur provides a tight nod in affirmation. Nettled somewhat by her terseness with Charles. Either she doesn't notice, or simply doesn't care to. For oblivious, she continues, "And your symptoms include a persistent cough, anything else?" 

"Uhh...I'm tired I guess, got no energy, no appetite either for that matter." he mutters, weary. 

"He has a temperature too." Charles interjects. 

"Ok, and when you cough, is there any mucus, any blood?" 

"…Sometimes." 

"Sometimes what, which is it?" snapping now, her eyes flicking upwards, grating at him, not unlike her words. 

Temper flaring, Arthur answers tersely, "Both." not much appreciating the woman's tone, her dogged pursuit to back him into a corner, forcing him to admit such uncomfortable truths plainly.

Not that it is much of a revelation to either party, the doctor, her face decidedly blank has likely already been informed of the circumstances that lead him here, and Charles, well...he was the one to bear witness to the whole ordeal, that night that Arthur collapsed over dinner, and painted the floor in red.

Chest heavy, he has been forced to acknowledge sometime between then and now, without a doubt, that particular farce had ended there and then. No more pretending, no more hiding neither Arthur muses bitterly. 

And they haven't talked about it, not properly anyway, neither of them holding the words to do so just yet. If he is to be honest, a small part of Arthur is grateful, to not yet have to face the disappointment, the hurt he has undoubtedly caused by concealing the severity of his illness for so very long. He doubts he could even provide a satisfactory excuse as to why, not entirely sure himself why he so desperately guarded it from the eyes of others, from Charles all this time. 

In any case, the woman clips out a dry, "Alright then." apparently sated. For she then diverts course, back to the matter at hand, "Well, I need to check your breathing, so remove the top of your gown please."

Her gaze expectant, verging towards the realm of impatience in the face of Arthur's intractable silence. The thing is, her demand in itself in not unjustified, Arthur can accept this, and yet for some incontrovertible reason, it still only sets to aggravate him further. This woman, dissatisfied by the act of merely penning him in, she must also debase him, treat like some goddamn animal. Some hideous sideshow attraction, to be paraded about before his gawking audience. Christ, even a performing monkey would still possess more dignity in this moment he ponders ruefully. And as such, Arthur can't help himself. In some twisted way hoping to jam the woman's insatiable rhythm, to break down that ironclad wall she has built in front of herself. 

And so he lashes out, striking against her pride, with the singular desire to inflict at least a measure of discomfort, anything that could compare to his own presently. "Now ain't you supposed to buy a fella dinner first 'fore making those kind of advances?"

Another instance, and such words might be construed as a joke, one delivered in poor taste perhaps, but nevertheless a quip of harmless intent. However, by his tone alone, it is plain to them both that Arthur had not meant it to be as such. Derisive, mocking, no its sole purpose had been to humiliate.

Now admittedly, she does take pause. Although, it is a cheap and fleeting victory, for she simply pushes back, deliberately unaffected. "Pull your robe down. Do you smoke?" 

Exhaling in annoyance, it extinguishes his fire quite effectively. And with nothing left to strife against, faced by an opponent that would disarm him by not even joining the game, Arthur answers, grumbling his concessions, "Used to, like a chimney. These days…not so much, on account of the coughin'."

"Mhm. I take it you weren't always this skinny, what is your weight these days?" 

"Ain't it…" he swallows, flinching at the biting touch of her stethoscope, "Ain't it rude to ask someone their weight doctor?" 

No reply. And Arthur, again rolls over to acquiesce, "I, uh…last I checked, maybe a week or two ago was 120." voice low, soft. 

A weighted pause, before she then continues her examination. And Charles too, upon a hasty glance in his direction, has paled significantly at that admission. 

But there's not the time to dwell on it, for she continues, "Ok, inhale deeply for me please, hold it and breathe out, nice and slow." followed by a few more minutes of poking and prodding, then, "Good. Now can you cough for me please?"

Which Arthur obliges, the ensuing fit lasting roughly a minute before he tampers it back under control. And utterly consumed in its wake, he promptly abandons any further attempt at glib humour, struggling to even remain conscious, chest heaving, beaded in sweat. 

She does at least grant him the decency of stepping aside during the outburst. Thoroughly absorbed in her notes whilst Arthur struggles to regain if but a shred of his self-respect.

At least now, his torso is again covered, draped over with a light blanket by Charles' gentle hands, and she takes that as her cue to resume. But not before silently brandishing a cup of water in his direction. An unexpected kindness, that Arthur gratefully receives, even if it is delivered to him with all the taciturn restraint of a concealed dagger, sunk deep and hard into his gut. 

In any case, he takes a few pensive sips, licks his lips, thankful also for this opportunity to gather himself, recapture his breath inside his lungs under the guise of something else. 

And it would have been something if she had left it at that, a thaw to melt the frost of their previous interactions. But, much like the false promise of spring, beneath the receding embankments lays a treacherous, unseen foe. Ice painted black and slick to the ground, announcing itself only when its victim is already tripped down, laid sprawled out on the ground, bones rattling inside his body. And much like falling over oneself, the gut wrenching reaction to such bodily shock is felt just the same when faced by her next words;

"So, that wound on your abdomen is recent, care to elaborate?" 

Choking, Arthur wipes at his chin as he sets the glass aside, wrestles out, entirely unconvincing, "I uhh, got in an accident…hunting." 

And Charles, squeezing his hand, throws the doctor a venomous look, clearly displeased with her pushing him still. But she again turns to detaching herself, disallowing either of them even an inch of slack, "Look, Mr. Morgan--" 

"Arthur…please." he wheezes, eyes shutting, brow creasing in pain. 

"Sure, Arthur." She amends. "Look, I'm here to help you, I need you to believe that. So anythin' you say, I won't be holdin' against you, it'll stay right here, in this room." returning his perturbed gaze, stern, earnest. "But I'm gonna need the entire truth if I'm to get to the root of this problem, ok?" 

"...Right." head spinning, Arthur swallows on the creeping urge to throw up. He can't make heads nor tails of any of this. 

She is a strange one. A mismatched patchwork that he can't decipher. Her vernacular swinging wildly between two poles. Proper, restrained one moment, then coarse as a cat's tongue the next. And there are whispers of kindness there, sugar dissolved in the vinegar that leaves a decidedly muddled aftertaste.

Caught inside his own confusion he remembers loosely Hosea's words, the story he wrote for Arthur to tell, dreadfully simple, so long as he is to stick to it's script. 

Yet…Arthur doesn't. Closing that particular book's pages, just too tired, he suddenly finds, to lie any longer. And strangely, perhaps even foolishly, he actually finds himself trusting this woman. Despite her contractions, and despite her frankly diabolical bedside manner, part of him decides that above all, she appears sincere at least. Stubborn sure, hammering like a nail until she reaches the truth she seeks, and uncaring if she splits her quarry in two during the process. It demands a certain kind or respect. Especially when her patient is an equally stubborn fool, one who clearly hasn't got the faintest clue what's good for him. 

So, exhausted, enough so that he is not even saddled by the compulsion to second guess himself, Arthur answers her, unburdening himself of any lingering doubt on the matter, "Hones' truth is, I was shot. We…we, think it was a rifle, but I didn't 'xactly…hang about to...ask." he answers, slow. Measuring each sylable with care, and even then his throat still protests fiercely despite the effort.

Sighing, frustrated, in himself before all else, Arthur curls inwards. His ongoing struggle, painfully evident to them all, surely. Barely even able to communicate. Having just heard himself, his own words pulling apart at the seams, unraveling before they can even push past his lips. Then there is the fatigue, turning his thoughts dull as old iron, making the act of stitching even simple sentences together a hopeless task. It's a miracle either of them understand half the nonsense slipping from his mouth. 

Caught in his ruminations, he vaguely registers Charles stiffening by his side, clearly not expecting this turn, that is, for Arthur to show his belly instead of his claws. The man watches from the sidelines cautiously, likely gauging whether to intervene on Arthur's behalf, as he himself is evidently incapacitated. 

Even she seems a little perplexed, perhaps expecting more fight out of him, or else just unsure how to now drag Arthur back into her line of sights, so that he might answer more of her questions. 

But she tries nonetheless, even if it is a rather limp attempt. Words tailing off, spoken with little hope of being answered, "So…well, was it treated at a hospital or…?" 

"No." Arthur barks out, coughing, surprising them both. Eyes momentarily flashing alight, "Didn't want no-one to get in trouble for it. Couldn't exactly…afford no hospital bills neither."

"Ok, thank you." For once, the gravelly timbre of her voice softening. "So…who tended the wound then, if y'all don't mind me asking?" She inquires, an open question to the room now. Arthur, evidently indisposed, a mine caved in by his own thoughts.

"It was me." Charles intercedes, now finding his voice. "I did the best I could with it, the wound was terrible. I couldn't stitch it, so I just kept it clean, packed it whilst the internal tissue healed. His recovery was long, slow. He suffered with infection for the first week, but the fever never passed, and after that his coughing worsened significantly."

"Makes sense." she nods thoughtfully. "His immune system would have been weakened, preoccupied with fighting the infection. But from what you've told me, the symptoms started before then? So it seems this incident merely sped things along. But considerin' the fact he's still alive, I'd say you did a remarkable job of it Mr…?"

"Smith, Charles."

"Well Mr. Smith, I can tell you now, the mortality rate on rifle wounds…well, most don't live to tell the tale, so my sincere commendations go out to you."

And startled, Charles mutters his thanks. For it is perhaps the kindest thing she has uttered yet, and both of them appear to be comparably vexxed by it. For she then clears her throat awkwardly, "In any case, it's not good news, but I assume you knew that already. I have my suspicions, but without the blood work and ideally a CT scan to confirm them, I shan't be voicing them just yet."

Then turning to face Arthur, she raises her voice, almost obnoxiously loud, so as to jar him from out his brooding. "Now, I'd also like to take a sample of the sputum you've been coughing up, so I'll make the preparations for that as well. But for the moment, I recommend that the both of you rest. I trust that I don't need to tell you that again Arthur?" she chides, nodding by ways of encouragement. Perhaps hoping to shovel Arthur out from the tunnel he has become so lost in, either that or to simply remind that disagreeing with her is not an option.

Either way, Arthur plays along, offering a weary salute, not really understanding much of what she just explained to him. "Yes boss."

"Now that's more like it." she answers, the faintest of a smiles brushing her lips. And before leaving entirely the doctor flips her head round to add, "If you have any questions or need to talk to me or anyone else for that matter, the reception desk is 24 hours, they'll be able to point you in the right direction. I'm Doctor Adler by the way, be seeing you soon."

And like that, it is over. Left to pick up the pieces in her wake, the two men share a laden glance, neither quite sure what to make of the encounter. 

Arthur is the first to voice his thoughts, "Y'know, I kinda like her." An assessment that leaves Charles, for a brief moment, stunned, before then answering dubiously,

"...Did you hit your head when you fell? Jesus Arthur, for a moment I was all but expecting to be breaking up a fist fight, the way you were both at eachother..." shaking his head, he chuckles weakly. The sincere and abject disbelief behind those words almost amusing. Certainly, it squeezes a few snickers out of them both, although it is not long before their fragile laughter falls flat. 

The conversation, taking its toll on the both of them, in it's separate ways it seems. Arthur, drained physically, his complexion ashen, almost translucent. Not unlike a sodden scrap of newsprint, barely able to uphold his own structural integrity besides. And Charles, worry again sitting heavy inside him. Confronted now in this hospital room, by the unavoidable reality of their situation. Speaking to Doctor Adler having served only to solidify his concerns, to externailise them from outside the confines of his own head.

All as though, spoken into existence, fate has suddenly rushed up to greet him. It leaves Charles all but consumed by the disquieting notion that unbeknownst to either of them, their time has run out. For what has been months of accumulation, seeming to have finally reached their climax, drawing ever closer to the end, whatever that may yet entail, he is still too fearful to say. 

In any case, Charles does his best to put aside such things for now, gesturing for Arthur to bunch up so that they can lay side by side. It's an awkward affair, the bed scarcely wide enough to accommodate the both of them, but they manage it, there abouts. Tangled up in one another, Charles finds it to be a gentle comfort, to simply share space, reminding him that their time together is still real, that Arthur is still here, alive, and that for now, this is all that matters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Sadie appears in this chapter! A little explanation, I really love her as a character and the bond that she and Arthur share in game. So I really wanted to include her in this fic if I could.
> 
> I toyed with the notion of having her as a member of the gang from the very start, but it just didn't fit, and ultimately I think it would have been detriment to her character, and the narrative overall, to try and squeeze her in while the focus was still very much on Arthur and Charles' developing relationship.
> 
> I think it's interesting this way as well, for Arthur to meet Sadie and vice versa under circumstances that couldn't be any more different than in game, with Sadie having already lived through the loss of Jake in this instance and Arthur being as sick as he is. It's almost as though the tables have turned. 
> 
> I do hope it still seems to be in character though.
> 
> See I figured, with Arthur and Sadie being a pair of hot heads, meeting like this, that is to say, without the months of character growth and development we see in game, the result would be a clash of wills more likely than not, the two of them to stubborn to step out of their own corners. 
> 
> They both cool off though next chapter, and I hope to explain as well some more of why Sadie is so standoffish and kinda...out right rude in this chapter. 
> 
> But anyway, that is that! I hope to be back soon, bye bye x


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few hours have since idled by, Arthur dozing intermittently for the most part, and Charles having passed the time doing little much of anything, neither here nor there. Simply enjoying the weighted contentment of it all, Arthur's body beside him, moulded to him, warm and rumbling like the earth.
> 
> ***

A few hours have since idled by, Arthur dozing intermittently for the most part, and Charles having passed the time doing little much of anything, neither here nor there. Simply enjoying the weighted contentment of it all, Arthur's body beside him, moulded to him, warm and rumbling like the earth. 

He is grateful too that their rest has been peaceful, undisturbed by the seismic shifts inside Arthur's chest, the cataclysmic destruction that would be caused by yet another one of his coughing fits. 

As such, presently, Charles could almost pretend everything is normal if he wished. Could pretend that they are instead home, simply passing a lazy morning in one another's arms as opposed to riding out a wretched storm together, huddled upon this tiny raft of a hospital bed. 

Sighing, temporarily setting aside such thoughts upon hearing a light rap on the door Charles shifts, glancing at the time, as though it matters. Perhaps it does, blinking now, somehow, the entire day has passed beyond his knowledge, for it is now late into the evening. The realisation leaves him wholly disoriented, not that there is any time to reflect upon it.

The door goes again. Shit. It must be Hosea.

Groaning, sifting through the clutter in his head, Charles extracts the arm pinned beneath Arthur with as much decorum as he is able, mercifully, his companion scarcely stirs in the process. Freed, he lurches upwards, absently combing a hand through his hair. Restless fingers find themselves travelling down his cheek, worrying at the mess of scar tissue there, all before he jolts back to awareness, reminded sharply of Hosea's unanswered presence. Wasting no more time, Charles jogs across the room, invites the man in. 

Ushered inside, they greet each other in kind, without any kind of adornment, Hosea as is now accustomed, asks "How is he?"

"The same." comes Charles' worn in reply. Adding, careful to keep his voice low, "We met his doctor, his tests should be run within the next few days, and then we shall know what he's facing soon after."

"...Good." Hosea nods distractedly, seeming to have ingested precious little of their exchange. Instead, vacant, his eyes drift over Charles, through him, towards the corner of the room, where Arthur lays. And Charles can't fault him for it, doesn't take offence. For he knows that if this has hit anyone harder than himself, surely it is Hosea. 

Even now, up close, the man looks…haggard. Face sagging, melting in rivulets, almost like wax. It saddens Charles to see, but then he doubts he himself looks much better, hair a rats nest, clothes rumpled from having spent the last two nights effectively camping in Arthur's room. 

It seems neither of them possess the energy to stand on pretence, to expend time and energy on such superficial activities as personal care, minds and bodies occupied by far more pressing concerns.

Sighing, he watches on, already familiar too, with this particular routine. Starting by Hosea, setting himself down by Arthur's bedside, unearthing a book from his jacket, then commencing to read from it aloud. And as always, it causes Charles to turn away, feeling as though it is not his place to observe, to invade upon such an intimate moment shared between father and son. And so, with it already decided in his mind, Charles moves without a word, to grab his coat, acting in full recognition of the valued commodity that time spent alone with Arthur has now become.

Immersed, it takes a long moment for Hosea to realise his intent, rushing to mark his place, he calls out, "You're leaving?" brow furrowed.

"No. Just getting some fresh air, I'll be perhaps an hour or so." Charles explains, amidst gathering the remainder of his loose possessions, phone, keys, lighter, cigarettes. 

To which Hosea makes a vague noise of assent, eyes eventually returning to his book, which Charles takes to be as blessing enough, clearly having been released from his vigil. And so, with that, he leaves, allowing the door to click shut behind him. 

***

Now stood under the awning of the main entrance, the fresh air sits cool and steady upon Charles' face. It helps dispel some of the clouding inside his head, a dense fog that can surely be attributed to his sustained lack of sleep. 

But then, ever since that night, resting, it seems pointless. A waste of precious time for one thing and well…part of Charles doubts he could snatch a few winks even if he tried. The memory of it alone, replaying on a reel behind his eyes, ceaselessly. Each revolution, wearing him down further, spinning him in circles. 

All of it having become a kind of merciless centrifuge, with Charles caught in the middle, torn apart by its terrible momentum. And over and over it goes, the vision of Arthur tumbling to the ground, as Charles had rushed down, arms spread to meet him, had cradled the man's lolling head upon his lap, lost, unknowing how to help, how to save him. 

Then amidst it all, the serrated reliastion twisting in his gut, telling Charles that which he already knew, there was nothing at all he could do. No he would be forced simply to play the part of spectator, to watch as the coughing beat Arthur to submission, kicking into his gut, snapping his spine. All whilst the poor man had clung so dearly to himself, curling inwards, trying desperately to hold all the rattling pieces together. 

And if it couldn't then get any worse, all of it finally culminating to one violent crescendo, when Arthur tipped his head, gagging. When blood hemorrhaged from his lips, spurting outwards, the pressurised stream of a fountain, spilling bright and red onto the floor. 

Dreadful as it had been, Arthur had calmed then, Charles remembers. Still as the dead. Each breath liquid in his throat, frothing and wet. And gripping to him, suspended in its aftermath, Charles had fumbled, fingers dumb and numb as he scrubbed uselessly at Arthur's chin, blind in his efforts to erase the evidence of what had just happened from existence, as though it would make a difference. 

Shuddering, Charles glances down, half expecting to see dried blood still, caked to his skin, flakes of it, like scales, peeling off of him. But there is none. 

Rubbing his hands, he pulls out the crushed pack of cigarettes from his jacket, ignoring the tremors, invisible strings tugging on his fingers, and scrounges for one, lighting it up, clamped between his teeth. The motion of it tangible and familiar, it helps a little to disrupt the memories, to guide him back into the present. 

Before then tucking it back away, Charles checks the rest of the packet, eyeing up a half dozen left. He'll have to stop for more on his next trip out, he ponders idly. Adding it to the mental list, the collection of formless thoughts, buzzing like fruit flies inside his head. Numerous tasks that he knows ought to be completed and yet he cannot will himself to act upon a single one. Unknowing where to start, or how, he's grown into the habit of just swatting them away, overwhelmed entirely by apparently the simplest of things. 

Exhaling heavily, his eyes track upwards, afloat, watching lazily as his his breath dissipate up above. Then Charles stubs the butt and lights another. Guilt pulling on his skin as he does, and yet he continues regardless. Of course he ought to stop. More than ever he knows this, and yet he doesn't. 

It's funny, once upon a time, Charles used to take some kind of pride in the knowledge that he could drop the habit as easily as he could pick it up. Simply taking it or leaving it upon a whim, much as he would a jacket on a fine spring day. Never one to find himself a slave to the cravings, or the desire to appear some kind of way to others. He would only ever really light up in the effort of being companionable. Partaking in a ritual that was adhered to by others, not himself. 

Arthur namely. 

Before all of this, the two of them burning away many a clear summer night out on his porch, just talking, nurturing the fragile flame that was their developing relationship. The man exuding that casual magnetism, that even now, still has Charles drawn, like a moth to a flame. 

A rare sight these days, but back then Charles would catch a glimpse of it, every now and then. The ease with which Arthur sometimes holds himself, that is when unencumbered by his own spiralling doubts and anxieties. Brief, precious moments in time during which his mind allows him to just…be. 

Nights like those, the memory of him still feels so close in Charles' mind. Arthur, sprawled out like a house cat, legs kicked back, a lazy smile pulling at his lips. Each cigarette burnt dutifully down between his calloused fingers, only to be immediately chased by another, and Arthur all the while would be drinking down each breath, smooth as a good whiskey, sweet as honey. 

And it seems Charles can understand some of the appeal now, finding himself tethered in orbit by the addiction much the same. Although he can't speak for Arthur as to why, or how he started smoking. But, looking inwards well…he has found himself a fool for what it can give him, in the way that it provides him time. A brief respite during which he can be no-one, think nothing. Simply put, a quiet place where he needn't be accompanied by his perpetual concerns, it is a blessing these days, and almost alluring as the nicotine itself. 

Of course, the irony isn't lost on him, that he would partake in a habit credited to shorten one's life in the pursuit of more time. Honestly, it's pretty funny, in that morose, humourless kind of way Charles finds. 

But, poor humour aside, mostly he just feels guilty, for feeling such a need to escape in the first place, to separate himself from the all-encompassing presence that is Arthur and his sickness, the two of them so intertwined, that some days it's hard to even discern which he is speaking to. Of course Charles knows deep inside, that Arthur would never resent him for it, at least…he tries to tell himself as such. 

Grimacing, eyes flicking down, Charles taps out another, sparking it to life so that he can snuff out such thoughts, suffocate them from existence, if only for another moment or two. 

Chest warm, he turns his gaze outwards, absorbed in the scene, the vacant stage set before him, the scant few cars littering the parking lot, blurry sirens sounding off in the distance. And cigarette by cigarette, Charles watches. Watches as the light fades, as it pulls in close around the edges, waking the street lamps from their well earned slumber.

A quiet drizzle too, now hangs in the air. Soft, shrouding the world like cotton wool, making it all something like a muffled dream. And much like a dream, everything feels so very unique in its unassailable familiarity, Charles finds. For this here, is a place that he has seen thousands of times, throughout thousands of lives, remembered and forgotten over and over. Something like a collective memory, it conjures the sense of being simultaneously connected to and separated from everyone and everything. 

A beautiful and lonely feeling. Natural and disastrous as staring into the sun or being swallowed whole by the ocean. And yet it compels him, encourages him even, to step out, to surrender himself entirely. 

That is, until the spell is broken. Shattered apart by the sound of footfalls behind him, followed by a similar flick and pop of a lighter, announcing itself.

Head still, body tensed, Charles' eyes travel inside his skull with the calculated weariness of prey, as though interrupted from its sup, down by placid shallows of a riverbank. But he then relaxes, returning to himself, strangely unsurprised to see Arthur's doctor adjacent to him. With a short nod Charles acknowledges her, eyes once again drifting ahead. 

Stood together for a time, he doesn't expect conversation, doesn't seek it, content enough to let the silence sit. Whereas, she seems to struggle with it, brimming with an anxious energy, burning through two more cigarettes before finally clearing the air, 

"Mr. Smith? Am I remembering that right?" 

"Mm yes, Charles is fine though." he replies levelly.

"Well then, Sadie is fine with me." She answers, leaning casually over the railing now, with a practised ease. 

Stiffening, Charles raises an eyebrow, regarding her as she sidles closer. "Have I taken your spot?" 

"What? No. 'Course not." she scoffs brazenly. "Well ok, I mean…this is my spot, technically. But I ain't gonna stop you, you're a grown man, you can smoke wherever you goddamn please."

"Uhuh." Charles replies, bemused. Taking another drag, he then breathes out, "You…seem different."

"Yeah, well I ain't on duty right now, so you're gettin' the pure, unfiltered experience. You're welcome." 

Frowning, Charles throws her a curious look before then shaking his head. A strange woman he decides, he doesn't know quite what he ought to make of all this, and so he merely hums, leaves it at that. 

In any case, siding towards indifference is a comfortable enough defence, a familiar one. So with that settled inside his head, the conversation turns to atrophy once more. Well if only for a second or two, for such abstruseness is apparently of no deterrence to her. If anything it seems only to serve as encouragement, an open challenge to sink her teeth into. 

"Oh and I see you're a strong and silent type? Well, that's fine by me, always did enjoy solving a good mystery." she teases, eyes sparking, tone light.

It tugs a reluctant smile out of him. But determined now to play it off, Charles turns his face to stone once more, replying only by taking another intake, deciding peevishly that he might as well live up to that evaluation by remaining silent. That and well…he is frankly still at a loss. 

Now admittedly, social graces never have been his forte, that Charles can admit. Not that he much cares whether he appears likeable, particularly at this point in his life, stood on the other side of thirty. But, for the most part, he can usually muddy his way along the waters when it comes to strangers, coming across as perhaps a mite frigid in his mannerisms but nevertheless amiable, polite. 

But as for now, facing Sadie, it feels like his paddling up creek with his bare hands, pulled along a current he had not intended to follow. He doesn't mind so much the diversion in his course, but the thing is he just doesn't understand it. Doesn't understand why this woman is suddenly so set on wrangling a conversation out of him, particularly considering her bullish approach towards Arthur and to some extent himself, but hours ago.

Strange. And strange enough that it starts to burrow under his skin, flushes out his sense of curiosity towards her. Reminding Charles in a distant way of his first introduction to Arthur, the two of them similar in having made rather abysmal first impressions. Then, also similar in other ways, both conflicted within themselves he thinks, hiding behind tough shells, antagonistic remarks and deliberately carved edges, all to protect something else, deeper inside. 

Watching surreptitiously as she fidgets, Charles wonders now, if in this instance, he is again mistaken. Upon their first meeting he had read that pent up fire within her to be a kind of cruelty, a ruthless and unforgiving arrogance. But what if there is more? And judging that he has little to lose by asking Charles does just that. 

"So, what brings the change in demeanor, if you don't mind me asking?" He inquires casually, no subterfuge, no adornment. 

Holding her gaze firm, it is a crude tactic, he knows. Designed to cut through the bluster, catch her off guard through sheer blunt force. 

Which it does. For her eyes narrow, instantly distrustful. But, apparently under scrutiny, she senses no ill will, for she answers slowly, "S'just easier, to keep things separate like that I guess. Particularly in this line of work. You learn early on that not everyone can be saved an' sometimes…well you gotta make yourself hard, so you can bear livin' with that." she shrugs, then adds, with a crooked smile, "That and well…my personal mannerisms, I've been told they ain't exactly, professional." 

"You don't say." Charles rejoinders dryly.

"Oh shut your trap, I ain't that bad!" she squawks, indignant. Then as if catching herself, she sobers, "I do wanna…apologise though, I guess." 

"For what?" 

Genuinely taken, his forthrightness again seems to throw her for a loop. Brow scrunched, she wrestles with her answer for a round or two, before mustering, 

"I was…well, I was unnecessarily tough on y'all back there, feels like I ought to apologise."

"You…don't need to." he answers guardedly, somewhat uncomfortable with the turn that this has taken. Feeling as though this whole conversation is one she really ought to be having with Arthur. 

"Yeah, but I want to." she clarifies, firm. "It's just that…well it seemed to me that Mr. Morgan--I mean Arthur, needed a stern hand yesterday, in that moment." 

"Sure." Charles replies tightly. His earlier curiosity now overshadowed entirely by the desire to be evacuated immediately from this moment, this interaction. 

Evidently she reads his discomfort as something else. For, compelled by the insatiable need to explain further she adds, "And I'll be perfectly candid with you, being a woman in this field, most times you come to expect a disregard from certain…patients. That is, plenty of men still got issue with takin' orders from a lady, and there was me figurung Arthur was just another one of them." 

Taking pause, it is not what he expects to hear and yet he recognises it, the place those words come from, as much as he wishes he did not.

"I understand, I know what it is like." he answers simply.

Because he does, of course he does. Having spent his entire life, subject to the judgement of others, men and women both that would define him as something he is not, merely by the way he looks. And whilst hers is a somewhat different plight, he can still empathise, as can she. For Sadie then amends, apologetic, 

"I'm sure. Sure you know plenty 'bout the sort of folks that would judge you from a mile off, an' 'fore you even get the chance to open your mouth…'specially 'round here." she adjoins darkly. "But anyway, s'just with Arthur being so facetious 'bout everythin', cracking wise like it was all some big joke, I'll admit it rubbed me the wrong way."

It is a fair reaction to have come to, in all honesty. And he can't exactly fault the woman for feeling as such when he himself had fared just the same all those years ago, before he had known there was any more to Arthur than his sharp tongue, his belligerent temper. And thinking upon it, something about the similarity in all this, the peculiar sense of deja vu, causes his lips to twitch, and with a sideways glance Charles leans in conspiratorially,

"You know, I actually…felt much the same when I first met him."

"You did, huh?" she twists to face him, disbelieving. 

"Sure. I figured he was just another brute. A man that grew up thinking he could justify his contempt towards others, by calling it payment for what he believed the world owed him."

"...Damn." she breathes out. "Well obviously somethin' changed your opinion, what happened?"

And with the ball landed in his court, it is now Charles' time to be rendered speechless. For so much has happened, more than he could ever try and put to words, or explain to someone who for all intents and purposes, is still very much a stranger. Thankfully, she senses his struggle and swiftly releases him from it, "It's ok, you don't gotta answer."

"I…thanks."

"No bother." she replies stoutly. "I mean I reckon can see it all a little clearer now, figure the banter is his way of coping with it all, maybe, I dunno. I've seen plenty of folks that would rather laugh in the face of death than give in. Gotta respect it, I guess."

And then, face blanching, as though just realising the implication of what she said, Sadie scrambles to patch the damage, "Ah shit…I didn't mean--" 

"It's ok."

"No, really Charles, I'm sorry." she bumbles, "I just meant…takes a certain strength to find humour at times like this, y'know?"

"Strength or stupidity." Charles mutters, before considering that he might regret it. For she immediately latches on, to whatever it is laced in his tone, prompting sharply, 

"How so?" 

"I...none of us knew how bad it was. If I'd have known, if he had just told me…" tailing off, Charles then closes his eyes, the weight of speaking such thoughts pressing down on his shoulders. 

"Oh. So…he's been hiding it this entire time?" Sadie answers, lips pressed, voice small. 

"Yes. I mean not the coughing, but the blood that comes with it…God knows how long he's been keeping that from all of us." Charles speaks grimly. 

And for a moment, that admission sits heavily between them. Until eventually, Sadie fills it, 

"Y'know, I imagine he's just afraid. Prolly just didn't want to scare you neither." she offers gently, fully aware that she is treading on glass.

"I know." Charles answers, dull, tired. It is the most logical explanation of course, and yet knowing so doesn't relieve the weight of it, the uncomfortable sense of betrayal he still feels. Squirming inside his brain, the notion that Arthur felt there was no choice but to bear this burden alone, that he couldn't trust Charles with it, wouldn't dare. 

It fuels inside him a directionless kind of anger, knowing that there is little use fighting over it now. Mostly though, he just feels grief. A grief for Arthur, knowing now the fear he has, all this time been living in the shadow of. Charles can only imagine the sheer terror of it, to find oneself caught within a limbo such as this. To be strung up on a noose of indeterminable length, unknowing as to when it will snap tight, when it will snatch the life right up from under one's feet. 

Tears threatening, ushered forth by the futility of even contemplating such things, Charles asks aloud, "How long is this…I mean, how long before I, before he--" 

"Hey, hey, Charles? Look, I can see where you're going with this, my advice? Don't." 

"...Don't what?" he bites, voice thick.

"Don't be getting lost now, y'hear?" she answers, resolute. Hand now reaching to his shoulder, drawing him back in. "Don't be thinking he won't pull through without even knowing yet."

"But how can you be so sure that he will? How can you know?" he then rebukes, urging her on, blind. Both challenging and begging, together. 

"Well…I don't." Sadie admits awkwardly. "But one thing I do know is that this rabbit hole you're gettin' lost down, best you start digging yourself out quick." Swallowing, she then adds, "Now I won't go into particulars, but you're gonna have to take my word on that Charles. See, I know what it's like to be sat on the other side, to watch the one person you love struggle with keepin' alive so fiercely that sometimes it seems the greater mercy to let 'em go."

And before Charles can enquire further, can clear a path from out of the muddled confusion her words have laid down, she unwittingly pulls him in further by saying, "Look, I ain't assuming it's like that with you an' Arthur, it really ain't my business if you two are an item or just friends, like you said. But forgive me for sayin', it's obvious that you care for him." 

Mortified, Charles says nothing. Blood pounding under his skin, panic rushing to the surface. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, penned in. Knowing full well any answer he could possibly give would be entirely disingenuous. That, and his present state of discontent has likely already served as answer enough. Indeed, judging by her sympathetic gaze, she has already garnered the truth. 

At least he can be grateful that she does not linger on it, instead pressing on, "All that aside, you gotta get out of thinking like this is already the end, ok? Don't give in just yet, and more importantly, when it feels like you want to, just...talk to someone, anyone. It helps, believe me." 

Then, a thought just having occurred to her, Sadie rummages for a pen and paper, jots something down and then hands the scrap to Charles with a flourish. "…Now I ain't in the habit of doin' this, but here, here's my personal number, jus' take it and if you need to talk, don't hesitate to call, alright?"

Rendered mute, Charles simply looks down at the paper, sat in his palm, dazed. 

Eyes searching, he then finds her turning to leave, face pained, all while reluctantly explaining, "Listen, I...really gotta get back, I'm sorry I can't stay with you longer. But I meant what I said though Charles, call me, anytime an' I'll answer." 

"Sure, I, thank you. For everything." he mumbles, a beat too slow, tongue leaden. 

"Don't mention it honey. Stay safe now, be seein' you soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so it's a new year huh. I hope it has found people well, even admist how terrible everything is right now.
> 
> I don't have too much by ways of commentary here, this chapter took me a while, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but it is what it is.
> 
> Everyone is now stuck in this limbo I guess, waiting for a diagnosis. Charles is struggling with how to cope, but he's figuring it out, with the help of others.
> 
> In general, I feel like Arthur and Charles kinda need to figure somethings out alone for a bit, you know, before either of them are in a place where they can talk about it together, in complete honesty.
> 
> But anyways, that's it for now. As always, my best x


End file.
